


Béagsele

by brodayhey



Category: The Sea of Trolls Trilogy
Genre: Dwarves, F/M, Gen, Magic, Road Trips, Teen Angst, has anyone read this series besides me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-03-18 02:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3552608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brodayhey/pseuds/brodayhey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack, heir of St. Columba, and Thorgil Silverhand, the heart-daughter of Olaf One Brow, have been tasked with travelling to Niðavellir, the realm of the dwarves.  Armed with new magic, charms, and an unnecessary amount of weapons on Thorgil's part, the pair will make their way across Midgard to Sindri's court.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moorlands

**Author's Note:**

> So the Trolls trilogy has been my favorite series since I was about seven years old, and there is literally no fan content for it anywhere. (This is most likely because I am the only one who still cares about it). I've decided to change that! I'm not expecting anyone to read this, and this is 100% for my own enjoyment.  
> This takes place about five years after the trilogy, so I imagine Jack and Thorgil's schooling is almost over. The two know all sorts of new magic, new songs, and new ways to mess with one another. I'm thinking that this quest to Niðavellir is the last part of their final exam. This is mostly just so I can let the two of them cast into animals for certain quest-y situations that will arise.

Jack’s brown eyes surveyed the vast emptiness of the heath in front of him. Heather and gorse for leagues and leagues, as far as the eye could see. And it could see far; the day was hot and clear, and gnats were out in force. He batted them away with a callused hand and continued to search the landscape for a yellow head and maybe a pony or two. Thorgil had been absent for a long time, since right after their breakfast. The moors were alive with the droning of bugs and the _pipit, pipit_ of the small brown birds that populated the moorland around them. Amongst the general useless chatter of the diminutive birds around her, earlier that day Thorgil had heard a pair of peet larks prattling along about a herd of “hoof-pounding four legged beasts” that were disturbing the grubs in the area that they were attempting to eat.

After a few years on the Islands of the Blessed, with all its teachings, along with Thorgil’s tutoring, Jack found he could understand much of what the bobbing birds were saying if he concentrated hard enough. As they munched on rather hard travelling scones, Jack looked up from his meager meal and saw that the shield maiden’s grey eyes were already trained on him.

Her eyes took on the color of the heather they had decided to rest upon to eat, they flashed purple at him as she spoke with a hunk of pastry rolling around in her mouth.

“Hear that, Jack?”

“Hm?”

Jack had heard it. He knew exactly what Thorgil was thinking. But, it was hot, and it was early, and would it be so bad to just lay around for a few hours before they started to move along once more?

“You heard it, you _veslingr_! You looked into my eyes as those pea brains chattered away about them!”

“Did I? All I heard was beautiful bird song.”

He didn’t even flinch as the bedroll hit him in the chest. Jack calmly sipped from his waterskin, watching and smiling as Thorgil’s face got increasingly red. Whether she was mad that throwing something at him hadn’t deterred him, or the fact that he wouldn’t acknowledge what the peet larks had said, it was unclear. Perhaps she had been mad at him for a while, and his little bout of teasing brought her snit to culmination. From the neck up, her skin was flushed, making the little nicks from swordplay on her face grow whiter, and her scars from the troll bear flare up in scarlet. She tore up a handful of heather and threw it at Jack’s head.

“Stop teasing me!” she cried out.

Jack stopped smiling and attempted to get most of the purple plant out of his curling hair. “Yes, I heard it,” he said. “But what is the point of going out of our way to find some ponies? Walking is fine.”

“It will shorten our journey. We have walked for weeks and weeks through forests and tiny Gaelic villages and I am through with it. Do you wish to walk the whole way to Niðavellir?”

“You are the only one who enjoys riding, princess,” Jack reminded her. He decided not to mention that they couldn’t walk to Niðavellir at all, as it was across the sea. “Besides, who knows what is out on this moor? All these flies, won’t there be a fen or a mire near? Having ponies would just hinder us.”

“ _Hladhǫnd_ ,” Thorgil sneered. “Dragon Tongue’s heir, scared off by spongy ground. I will leave my things here. You watch, and I’ll search for these ponies.”

She stomped off, leather boots flattening the defenseless heather, her now long blonde hair swinging with the momentum of her angry movements.

Jack let out a sigh. The only thing to do then was wait.

And wait.

Around midday is when he started to worry. There really was the danger of a fen in the land around them. Jack had not forgotten the fate that had nearly befallen Lucy. He plucked nervously at a loose string on his tunic, trying to banish images of Thorgil being swallowed up by the land from his head. He gnawed on a bit of smoked fish to distract himself. This little adventure he was on was part of his studies, and certainly, he should have had St. Columba’s staff in his hands, should have been trying to glean some knowledge from the slender piece of wood. But the boy could not focus on the life force with the thought of Thorgil distracting him. And besides, there were too many flies buzzing around to clear his mind completely.

As the midday meal approached , Jack finally spotted a cloaked figure on the back of a stout grey pony. Another pony was close behind, probably being led by nothing more than Thorgil’s word.

Jack stood up from his spot in the heather, and let out a mild curse at the prickly feeling up and down his legs. He stamped around to get the feeling back into his limbs, all the while waving at Thorgil, in case she wasn’t sure where they had camped.

“You look ridiculous,” she said, as soon as she was within earshot.

“Aye,” Jack replied. “But I wanted to be sure that you would see me.” He wasn’t sure if she was still mad, so he decided to go with a more peaceful branch of conversation. “I see you found the ponies.”

“They were rather close, but I just led these two around for a little while just to make you wait.” Thorgil gave him a wicked smile. She began to gather all their bags, pulling a piece of rope out of Jack’s pack to bundle everything together. “Now that we have them, we best get moving while there is still light. I’d like to get to the coast before winter sets in.”

“Thorgil, it is not even Midsummer.”

She laughed. “At the rate you wish to go, we won’t get to my homeland until my hair is white.”

Jack huffed. “We have plenty of time. But it _would_ be nice to get to the Northland before the winter storms begin.”

“Yes. That’s why you must get on the pony, and not complain about sore buttocks as always.”

The boy gathered his belongings, making especially sure that St. Columba’s staff was safely secured to his back with a leather strap. He swung himself onto the stout grey beast’s back, silently bemoaning the lack of a saddle. He was sure to have riding sores.

“I am sure that you purposefully pick mounts that are set against me riding them,” Jack complained.

“Not true,” Thorgil told him. “The beasts I pick are simply good judges of character. They know a cowardly, suckling baby rides their back, and they’re not too happy about it.”

Jack bit back the obvious reply that he was not a _brjostabarn_ , and simply said, “Let’s move along, then. While the sun is still up. We shall eat while we ride.”

The ponies Thorgil had found were surely feral, but they bore him as well as any pony (not well). They plodded along through the rolling moor at a steady pace. For a while, Jack wondered silently why the beasts were so good natured. He asked Thorgil.

“I just asked them,” Thorgil said. “The ponies are Gaelic, but they still honor Hengist’s line. I told them of our quest, and they agreed to carry us for a while.”

“A while?”

“Yes.”

“Surely they gave you a specified time?”

“You’ll never know.”

Jack tried not to throw the handful of nuts in his hand at her blonde head.

The pair of them rode until it was too dark to spot dips in the land, or the pools of water that were located around the heath. Thorgil softly whispered to the two horses as Jack set up camp. It wasn’t much of a camp; they slept under the stars. He just set their packs on the dirt, and laid St. Columba’s spotless white cloak on a springy patch of heather.

The ponies wandered off into the dark, and Thorgil walked up to Jack, who had already laid down on his cloak.

“They’ll be back by first light,” she said. She laid her shabbier cloak next to Jack’s nicer one. “You get first watch tonight.”

“And why is that?” Jack asked. He had had first watch the night before.

“I had a very tiring day of searching for ponies, while you frolicked through fields of gorse, singing Anglo-Saxon ditties. I get to sleep first.”

“That is not true!” Jack protested. “I worked.”

“Did you?”

“I practiced with my staff.” That was a lie. But he had thought about practicing.

“Not work,” Thorgil said. “You sit around for that. For all I know, you were making daisy crowns.”

“There are no daisies around here,” he pointed out.

“First watch,” she repeated.

“Fine,” Jack said, sitting up. “But you can go fill up the water skins. Shall I start up a fire?”

“No, it is too warm. Besides, the heather is dry around here. It may well all blaze up. We can just eat some of the salted meat.”

She held out her hand for Jack’s water skin, which he handed to her. She wandered off, and he rifled through his pack for some food. He decided to save the travelling scones, and pulled out a few pieces of salted pork.

By the time Thorgil got back, Jack took his refilled waterskin gratefully. Salted meat had a way of drying your mouth out. The shield maiden sat down on her cloak and looked into one of her packs for her provisions. She had a strip of salted pork as well, and a handful of pignuts as well. Like most Northmen, she gave all her attention to eating, ignoring Jack’s attempts at conversation.

Once she had eaten and drunken her fill, she looked at Jack.

“How are you faring?” she asked.

Jack gave her a disbelieving look. “Are you truly curious, or are you asking to fill the silence?”

“Perhaps I am speaking to hear my own voice. How are you faring?”

“I am fine,” Jack said. “I wish we were on the Horse Islands already.”

“I feel the same. I would like to see Skakki, and perhaps Egil.”

“We will be there soon enough,” Jack watched Thorgil as she laid down on her cloak. She curled up on her side, her now-healed right hand held protectively against her chest. “Has Schlaup made his move to the mainland yet?”

“Aye, he should have by now. I have not had news from either of my brothers for many a month. But I am sure he is at his own hall, which Ygdith will be ruling with an iron fist.”

“I am sure. In a few weeks time we will surely have more than enough of your brothers.”

“You can never have enough of my brothers! And why do you care? You will be spending all your time with Rune and Heide, yes?”

“Most likely,” Jack agreed.

They were silent for a few minutes. Jack thought Thorgil had fallen asleep, until she spoke again.

“What about your family?”

“Hm?”

“And Pega? How are they?”

“I…” Jack trailed off. “Well, I am sure they are doing well.”

"You don't know?"

Jack twisted the edge of his tunic, and kept his eyes on the moor in front of him. He didn't even glance at Thorgil. "The last time I foresaw, Brigid showed me a thriving farm, and my old house had an extra wing. But that was... some time ago."

"Some time?"

"Seven moons ago. At least."

Thorgil was silent for a second. "Do you not care?" she asked.

"I care!" Jack told her. "Its just that I know that they are fine, I don't need to check up on them all the time. They can take care of themselves."

"But do you not want to see them?"

"Well, of course."

"Then why do you not try to?"

Jack took his eyes off of the landscape and looked at Thorgil. Her eyebrows were knitted together, and she did not look too pleased about what Jack was saying.

"Do you ever miss something so much that its just painful to think about?" Thorgil didn't say anything, so Jack continued. "When you think about your brothers, bloodhound or otherwise, do you sometimes miss them so much that your heart aches?"

Thorgil wasn't one to admit that she had feelings besides rage and rapture, but she still said, "Yes."

"That's what I feel when I see Giles, or Mother. When I see Hazel stomping after our geese."

"I see."

"And, when I see Pega, all I can think about is that I told her we would be back by spring. Spring! It has been four years. It hurts to look upon her."

"You don't have to explain yourself," she said softly. Jack offhandedly wondered why she was being so kind.

"Well, you asked," Jack said shortly. "I do care, the problem is that I care about them too much."

Thorgil didn't say anything. After a while, Jack figured she had fallen asleep. It would not be the first time she dropped off in the middle of a conversation. She had a habit of working until exhaustion took her. He listened to her slow, steady breathing for a while before adding quietly, "I care about you, too."

She lay there quietly, not daring to make a sound. The shieldmaiden kept her soft smile to herself.

 

* * *

****

Jack was up early in the morning, woken by the chirping of birds and Thorgil's slender hand jabbing into the soft flesh of his stomach.

"Up," she commanded. "We will eat as we ride."

Jack let out a rather unbecoming whine. "Can't we rest a bit longer? Surely you're tired from your watch?"

"I'll be tired on the pony. Up you get."

Jack stood up, stretching as he did. He picked up St. Columba's cloak from the ground, not even surprised that it wasn't dirty after its night on the ground. He pinned the cloak over his right shoulder.The day before, he hadn't needed the added warmth of a cloak, but the morning was chilly. The sun was not up yet, and the heath was covered in rolling fog.

The boy walked a little ways off into the mist to take a quick piss. By the time he was back, Thorgil was already perched on the back of her grey pony.

"Everything come out fine?" she called. In response, Jack gave her a rude hand gesture. The shieldmaiden just laughed. Then, she said, "I'm not entirely sure how much longer we will be in this moor. But I figured that we will ride until its dark--" she was interrupted by a whinny from her pony. "Or p'raps we shall let our mounts guide us."

"What did she say?"

"She said that she shall guide us to the edge of the heath, and then we will only be three days away from the next village." Thorgil gave her mount an appreciative pat on the nose.

"Very well," Jack said. "Which direction will that be in? And how long will it take us?"

Thorgil whispered in the pony's ear, and was given a series of whinnies and blustery noises in response.

"South," she translated. "And two days, or so."

"Better get moving, then. Could you ask her," Jack patted his pony's head. "If she could make the ride a bit more comfortable?"

"No," Thorgil said.

The two companions rode all through the day, which luckily, had good weather. The sun was bright, but shrouded partially by some innocent white clouds. By midmorning, Jack had shed his cloak. Thorgil, with none of Jack’s Saxon modesty, had taken off her tunic, clad in nothing but a thin linen undershirt. The young bard kept his eyes fixed directly in front of him.

The good weather held until the edge of the heath, when the first signs of civilization popped up. A path marked by stones led the two riders to the edge of some kind of bean. There were slightly even rows of some kind of bean, judging from the poles stuck into the dark earth every few handbreadths. Despite the order of the field, the tilt of the beanpoles and the abundance of weeds made Jack think the farm had been abandoned for a while.

The two ponies did not care whether or not the farm was inhabited. After about five days of riding, they had finally reached the end of the moorland. Their job was over.

Thorgil thanked them, and they each gave her rather horsey kisses. Jack called "God be with you!" from a safe distance.

Both of the teenagers shouldered their packs and began to walk.

"Do you think the ponies appreciated your Christian sentiments?" Thorgil asked Jack.

"No. P'raps I should have asked the life force to hold them in the hollow of its hand."

"P'raps," Thorgil mused. "They do not care either way."

Though the farm they encountered was not inhabited, they quickly found where the tenants may have moved. A village. It was hard to see the expanse of it, from the lack of elevation and abundance of fields and pens of animals and such. The homes they could see were made of sod, looking rather like little hills with holes in the side.

"Shall we ask for aid?" Thorgil asked. "Surely they have some sort of preserved food to offer to a pair of strangers."

"Strangers like us?" Jack countered. "One carrying a wizard staff, the other with battle scars and Northman tattoos?"

"We can intimidate them into giving us supplies," she said brightly. "And none can see my tattoos, hidden as they are."

Jack shifted the pack on his back and tightened his grip on St. Columba's staff. "I suppose we can try. Intimidating, that is."

Thorgil smiled. She was in a bright mood that morning. "You almost sound like a Northman." She pointed her slender hand towards the largest of the sod houses in sight. "Would that be the chief's house?"

"We can check."

It was. As soon as the two began to approach the sod house, a man stepped out. He was wearing a mostly plain tunic and leggings, the only sign of his standing being an elaborate braid embroidered around the neckline of his tunic, and a rather splendid blue cloak. It was a bit warm for such a heavy cloak, but Jack thought he might have put it on to meet with the intimidating prospect of a young man with a wizard's staff and a scarred warrior with a sword in her belt. The blue cloak made his sun-browned face and snarled beard look almost regal. Almost.

The effect was a bit tarnished when the man stuttered out a few sentences in Gaelic.

"Er..." Jack trailed off. "What do we do?"

"Do you speak Saxon?" Thorgil asked the man, in Saxon. When he just looked at them helplessly, Thorgil shrugged. "There's no way he speaks my language. Don't you have a spell for this sort of thing?"

"Don't you? We go to the same school, Thorgil."

"Aye, but you have St. Columba's staff."

"Well, I don't think he feels like helping me right now."

Thorgil punched the boy in the arm, as if it was his fault that the staff wasn't helping. She shrugged off her pack, and pulled out a strip of salted pork. She waved it at the man, and spoke very slowly. "Do you... have... any food?"

The man just stared at them helplessly. Thorgil let out a low noise of frustration.

"Should we just pass through the village?" Jack suggested. He placed his hand on the small of Thorgil's back, thinking to guide her. She did not budge. "We can just keep walking until we get to Edwin's Town. It cannot be too f--"

"Edwin's Town," the village's chieftain said. The Saxon boy looked up at him, a little shocked at the sound of his own language. "Dùn Eidyn?"

"Er... yes," Jack replied. "We would like to go there." It was then that Jack missed Pega quite strongly. The missing thing was a bit of a constant ache, but occasionally it would just flare up. All he could think about was that Pega had lived in Edwin's Town; she could speak the language of the Scots. She could be a lot of help. And she could stop Thorgil from pulling out her golden hair in frustration.

The chieftain let out a stream of Gaelic, accompanied by a lot of bobbing and waving his hands.

“What is he saying?” Thorgil whispered under her breath.

Jack thought of responding, but thought better of it when the man turned towards the turf house he came out of, and shouted a few words. He then held up his hand in a gesture that could be interpreted as “wait here”. With that, he turned and walked quickly back into the house.

“Well,” Jack said. “Suppose we should wait.”

“Suppose you should have better grasp on that staff of yours,” Thorgil retorted. “For then we could have actually known what was going on.”

“Aye,” Jack agreed. “But would that not take the surprise out of things?”

The young bard turned to Thorgil with a grin when the man came out of the turf abode, accompanied by a boy around Jack’s age, perhaps the chieftain’s son. Each had a bundle in their arms, whatever it was was wrapped in thick blankets and tied with cord. The two Scots passed the wrapped goods to Jack and Thorgil with a smile, and then immediately turned and walked quickly into the turf house.

“That was easier than expected,” Jack stated, looking down at the bundle in his hands. “What do you suppose they gave us?”

Thorgil tucked hers underneath her arm, and started walking east, the direction they had been heading for weeks, now. “We can see later. They obviously want to be rid of us. I feel we make them…” she trailed off with a wicked smile. ”Uncomfortable.”

Jack followed her lead, the bundle under one arm, and his staff in the other. “When did you begin to care whether or not people were uncomfortable in your presence? I would think that the Jill I know would want to intimidate some sniveling Scots as long as possible.”

“Don’t call me Jill,” Thorgil said, reflex at this point. “I wish to save my energy to intimidate some sniveling Scots in Edwin’s Town, by your leave,” she added sarcastically.

As the two continued along their path, they passed along a few farms, growing barley waving in the breeze, and tendrils slowly going up bean poles. The folk working the farms reminded Jack of the people living in his village, many leagues to the south. They were browned by the sun, their dark hair and eyes gazing upon a young wizard and his warrior companion with distrust. The clothes they wore were simple and homespun, of homely colors like brown and grey. The men had short beards, and the women stooped over the plants had their hair covered in modest white. Many of the villagers spat or crossed themselves when the two strange youths passed, which Jack noted with a smile. Yes, definitely like his village.

Eventually, they again left all civilization behind. There were a few farms here and there, on their journey, but not nearly enough to constitute as a village or hamlet. As the weeks wore on, and Jack’s feet complained from the many leagues walked, moorland gave way to green, rolling farmland. The pleasant lay of the land was interrupted periodically by mass outcroppings of stone, with carvings of old gods that Jack could not name inscribed on some of them. The boy wondered if the Bard would know their names, and then quickly answered himself: yes, of course he would know. He would ask the old man the next time he visited the isles.

From the passing of the moon, Jack guessed that it had been about two months since he and Thorgil had first landed in the land of the Scots. He marked that length of time in his head, to look after in his later travels. From the rocky beach they had touched down on, two and a half moons to get to Edwin's Town.

He and Thorgil sat on a rocky outcropping, half a day's walk from the bulk of Edwin's Town. As it was, they could see down to the wharf to the East. The hulking fortress, the twin to Din Guardi, laid upon a hill an hour or two to the north. Jack tried to keep his eyes off of the great castle, and cleared his thoughts of the Pictish stone that almost claimed his life.

"Good to be back?" Thorgil asked, in between gnaws on a particularly chewy piece of salted pork. They would soon be able to eat fresher food, and the shield maiden thought to get rid of the last of the preserved food in her pack. "I imagine this place is much kinder without a slave collar on your neck."

"It would be even better without an insufferable shield maiden tagging along," Jack told her, rolling away from the kick Thorgil aimed at his side. He kept any remarks that Thorgil had also been a slave within, because there is no way he would avoid that kick. "I figure that we should go into town tomorrow, and search for passage to the Northland. Do you think we have enough coin?"

"We need not coin," Thorgil said. "You can just threaten to blow on a wisp of straw, and we shall get whatever we ask for. And why not go into town today?"

"From the lack of bustle, I assume today is the Sabbath," Jack said. "There will be no one to threaten at the docks."

Thorgil gave him a small smile at his last statement. "And you don't wish to go up to the castle, to seek a bed for the night?"

"We can sleep on the ground one more night. I have no need to approach that place again."

"That is wise," Thorgil agreed. "We have none of my brothers to save you if you decide to take a nap again."

"I did not take a nap!" Jack protested. "There is Unlife near that place."

"Still, you just laid down on that rock."

"The haar made me drowsy."

"Your conversation makes me drowsy," Thorgil said, in her best imitation of Jack's voice. Which is to say, a whiney and high pitched Saxon accent. In Jack's opinion, not accurate at all.

"I'm sure it does," he said, trying to ignore the teasing. He failed. "And I don't sound like that!"


	2. North Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A surprising lack of threats, some blood sacrifice, and a fierce summer storm. Such are the things that happen when one is a wizard.

Jack and Thorgil managed to get a ship to Horse Island from a slight man with a merchant vessel. He spoke the language of the Northmen, and despite the slight accent on some of his words, the bracelet strung with boar teeth on his wrist showed that he was not truly a Scot.

Thorgil, with her keen eyes, had spotted the bracelet of boar's teeth and amber while they had been walking along the harbor. She pointed it out, and then led the way to the man, who got a strange look in his eyes when he saw Jack's white cloak and wizard's staff. He began to say something in the language of the Scots, but Thorgil cut the man off.

"Læsa," She said to the man. She spoke in her own tongue. "We are looking for passage to Horse Island, and you have a ship."

Jack leaned against his staff, drawing attention to the gnarled ash. He took advantage of the charm on the man's wrist when he said, "Freyr would surely smile upon your hospitality, if you gave us transport."

"And we have gold," Thorgil said. She fingered the gold studs and hoops in her ears. "If you are interested in that sort of thing."

“Stop this intimidation nonsense," the merchant said. Well then, Jack thought. "I do not need blessings, nor do I need gold. I need something else."

"What is it?" Thorgil asked him. She looked pleased that she wouldn't have to give up any of her jewelry.

"You are a skald?" the man asked Jack.

"I am Dragon Tongue's heir," Jack told him.

"Good, good," the man said. "I am Loni, by the way."

"Well, what do you need, Loni?" Jack asked.

"My ship," Loni said. He got right to the issue at hand.  "Do you have a charm to stave off damage to it? It was damaged badly in the winter storms of last year. You remember."

Jack didn't remember, nor did Thorgil. The Islands of the Blessed were in a constant state of summer. But the young man nodded his head, concurring with Loni. "I remember."

"I do not wish for my ship to be damaged again. I thought a skald may be able to keep her safe."

"Er, well--"

"I can do it," Thorgil said. She turned to Loni. "Do you trust a Saxon to keep your ship safe, or one of your own?"

"As long as it is done I d--"

"This boy does not know of the runes that will keep a ship safe from the tempers of Ægir. Let me help."

Jack tried not to be too bothered by Thorgil calling him a boy. She was right, of course. Thorgil knew the runes to invoke to create all kinds of charms and staves. And besides, the life force would not want to be invoked to keep a human's ship afloat. Not for an extended period of time, anyway.

Loni nodded. "What do you need to have this happen?"

Thorgil smiled, stretching the scars on her cheek. "A knife," she said.

And so, four days later, Jack leaned against the mast of Loni's ship, which had a new stave carved a few feet above his head. It was an angular design, scratched deeply into the wood. A brownish-red stain covered the wood-- blood from Thorgil's hand. Typical of the magic Northmen practiced, Jack thought, all about sacrifice. He wouldn't complain out loud, of course, because in the end it got the job done. They were on the open sea, Loni and his crew guiding the boat through the water. The sea was peaceful, and the wind was not blowing hard enough to push the ship the long distance to Horse Island. So, the men rowed.

As much as Jack loved the ocean air on his face, and the rolling of the deck below his feet, there was not much to do on the wide merchant vessel besides bail out the water that always found its way around your boots. Thorgil had abandoned him for the crew, trading dirty jokes and curse words with the diverse group of men. With no one else to occupy his time, Jack turned to Loni.

"Teach me to sail?" he asked the man.

Loni's hair was brown, but streaked with grey. It was bound in a low tail, that streamed in the wind blowing from the East. The man didn't decorate himself, besides the bracelet on his wrist, and his beard was shorn shorter than most of the Northmen Jack knew.

"Why?" Loni asked. "Saxons do not sail."

"What am I doing, then?"

"Lazing around while my men sail," Loni said, simply. "I would have thought that a skald would be more busy."

"We usually are," Jack smiled. "Calling to the life force, honing our skills. For a long time I have studied, learning many things from the earth. You could say this voyage is my well-earned rest."

"Is that all it is? A rest?"

"Not exactly," Jack said, edging around the question. He didn't want to reveal much about his quest. "My companion and I are heading north, to complete a task. Once we reach our destination, our schooling will be essentially over."

"But you will not say where it is you are going?"

"I'm not sure if it would be wise. It is not in this realm, however," he added.

"Ah," Loni said. "Continuing the Saga of Thorgil Silverhand, are we?" So the man knew who they were.

"It is my story as well," Jack told him, a little miffed. He had written the ballad, after all. "It is just a little conceited to write about yourself. And Jack the Farmer's Brat is not the awe inspiring epithet of Silverhand."

"Maybe not," the Northman agreed. "But there is more to you than being the son of a farmer, skald." Jack was about to say his thanks, but Loni stopped him. "You wish to sail, then, Jack Farmer's Brat? Follow me."

Jack left his place against the mast and followed Loni to the bow of the ship. He motioned Jack towards the seat next to the rudder. The man who had been using it walked off, probably to go have a drink of water.

"Do you know what this is?" Loni asked him, as Jack sat down. Jack laid his staff across his knees, not wanting it to touch the bilge water washing over his boots.

"It is the rudder," Jack told him. "It steers the ship."

"Aye," Loni agreed. "You have the arms of a newly hatched chick, so this is all you will be able to do on my ship. Do you know how to use it?"

Jack didn't protest his arms being compared to a baby bird, as it was a little true. Despite years of working his father's farm, he had little muscle to speak of. He was not sturdy like Giles, nor did he have the lithe and sinewy grace Thorgil possessed.

"I keep it steady," Jack said. "I keep my hands on it, and I don't let the waves or the wind take it from me."

"Good man," Loni said. "Do that for a few hours and come to me if you still want to be a sailor. Keep it steady." He walked away, but turned back around after a few steps. "And I'll try to keep the shield maiden from teasing you."

He failed, of course. Nothing could keep Thorgil away from an easy target.

"Little skald," she crooned. "Doing manual labor." She had a boffin in her hand, taking a bite out of the dried apple, chewing it with her mouth open. Away from her homeland for six, seven years, and she still kept their manners.

"I asked for this, actually," Jack said, blinking sweat out of his eyes.

“Did you? This was always my job on Olaf’s voyages,” Thorgil remembered. “I kept Lucy next to me, and pinched her whenever you locked eyes with me. How it made you squirm!”

“When we first met,” Jack told her. “I wanted to kill you.” I sometimes get the same urge now, he thought. He didn’t say that out loud. He wasn’t sure if his friend would laugh or punch him in the neck.

Thorgil hummed in response, a smile on her face. “I know,” she said. “It was good fun to poke at your wounds, to see the little Saxon lash out. I was almost happy to have you and the little álfr on the voyage, because I finally had the opportunity to threaten someone in Allyson’s language.”

“You did not seem very happy to have us there,” Jack pointed out. “I remember a scrawny little thing pouting at the rudder, disappointed that Olaf stopped paying you attention in favor of little Lucy.” It was easy to poke fun at the situation now that it was close to a decade ago. Jack did not think it something to joke about at all, at the time. He had been terrified for his life, surrounded by pirates and slavers and a grey-eyed boy intent on harming or killing him and his sister.

“Is that how you remember me, truly?”

Jack tried not to smile. It was always pleasing to have Thorgil hanging off of his words. He liked it when she wanted to talk, instead of sparring (with weapons or words), or just simply knocking him over the head to ‘see what he would do’. “For a bite of that apple, and your response, I’ll tell you my first impression.”

Thorgil passed him the apple, saying, “I should have asked this before. I am truly curious.”

“Are you?” Jack asked. “Which first impression would you like to hear?: When I first saw you , and you tackled my six year old sister into hard-packed dirt, or when I saw you on the drekar?”

“The second one,” Thorgil requested. “And I did not tackle her! I put a knife to her throat. My heart-father did the tackling.”

“And that is much better,” Jack said, trying not to roll his eyes. “When I first saw you on the ship, after I recovered from puking over the side of the ship…” He bit into the apple. “I saw you and thought ‘what a sullen boy!’ and then I realized you were the one who captured Lucy. And then I wanted to kill you.”

“There is more than that, surely!”

“Is there?”

“I can tell! I was many things when I was twelve, and sullen was not the only thing. Let me hear it. The whole truth, else I take back my apple.”

Jack replied to that by taking a huge bite out of the fruit. “Well,” he said, letting the food roll around in his mouth. “The whole truth is that I thought you were rather handsome, but in need of a nice bath. You had a greasy leather cap on, I remember, and it made your hair hang down in strings. And you smelled like damp sheep.”

“I am quite good looking,” Thorgil said. “Thank you for noticing.”

“Is that really the only thing you got from that?”

The shieldmaiden didn’t respond, instead saying, “My turn!” She pointed at Jack. “I thought you were scrawny, and your curly hair was strange to my eyes. Olaf carried you back to the ship over his shoulders, and you moaned after every sudden movement. I thought you quite weak. I hated you, and then somewhere in Jotunheim I just stopped. You sang my heart-father into his death. I think it was when you threatened to bash me in the head with a rock when I began to respect you.”

Of course a threat on her life would make Thorgil enjoy my presence, thought Jack. Northmen are strange folk. “And what do you think now?”

Thorgil considered that for a moment. “You are not weak, at least in the mind. Your arms are still skinny. I am glad we are friends.”

“I feel the same way,” Jack smiled. Or perhaps he felt a little bit more, but that was his business wasn’t it? “Is that the last heartfelt thing you say to me for the next year or so?”

“You can count on it,” Thorgil grinned wolfishly, not even flinching when Jack threw the apple core at her. “I’m going to learn how to curse in Latin. Have fun with the rudder, blíðr.”

He did not have fun at the rudder. The novelty of (somewhat) sailing quickly wore off as his arms got tired from being in the same position for hours. He appreciated the term of endearment from Thorgil, though. It was rather sweet of her, but the effect was ruined when he heard her shouting (presumably dirty) Latin from the other end of the ship. By the end of his time at the rudder, the sun was going down in the West, and the crew was settling down to eat their evening meal. The crew was not all Northmen, so there was a steady buzz of conversation as the men ate. Thorgil sat by Jack and Loni, but did not speak. She had a pleased smile on her face as the crew let out burbles and hisses and trills and caws that Jack interpreted as rather filthy insults. Thorgil was given a gift, the creatures of the air talked freely with her, and she used her skill to teach grown men curse words. Jack wasn’t sure what else he could have expected from his friend.

* * *

Jack cast out his mind to the swirls and eddies of the life force around him. As the years went by, he found himself being able to immerse himself better and better. Oftentimes, he could find himself slipping in without even trying. When he was calm, he just found himself being embraced by the calming warmth of moving life all around him.

With this development, this familiarity with the life force, Jack also found himself being able to reach out to the powers around him in times of stress. Such as when they were two weeks into their voyage, and a fierce storm tossed Loni’s ships between the waves.

Loni walked with his head bowed to the bow of the ship, where Jack was gritting his teeth, his arms shaking with the effort of keeping the rudder steady. St. Columba’s staff was laying across his knees. Thorgil was feverishly bailing water out next to him, cursing richly whenever salt water got into her eyes. Everyone on the ship was drenched with rain and ocean water alike. Men were moving quickly on the ship, taking down the sail, wrenching their oars out of water and into the boat. Many were like Thorgil, bailing out the ship with anything they had that could hold water. Some were rushing to cover the goods at the prow of the ship with oilskins, doing their best to keep things dry. Other men were just looking at the thrashing sea around them, clutching charms and talismans that hung from their necks.

Loni put a sturdy hand on Jack’s shoulder, not commenting on the fact that the narrow shoulder was literally shaking with effort.

“Skald,” the captain said. “Is there anything you can do to stop this storm?”

Jack looked up at the Northman, then snapped at Thorgil in Saxon, shouting “Róðor!”.The two switched quickly, in practice with each other’s movements after so long a time together. Thorgil threw the bucket to the deck, where it floated uselessly in the steadily rising bilge water. She sat down on the bench as Jack stood up, gripping his staff in shaking hands.

“Don’t speak,” Jack told Loni. “Go to the prow, and leave me here with Thorgil. I need quiet.”

Loni walked as briskly as he could, following Jack’s orders, and telling his men to hush.

“That’s you too, Jill. Hush now.”

Thorgil stuck out her jaw, keeping a tight hold on the rudder. The look on her face clearly said, ‘Does it look like I feel like talking right now?’ Or perhaps her angry expression was because Jack called her Jill.

Jack ignored the rain beating down on him, breathing deeply. He cleared his mind, as well as he could, and then suddenly the drumming rain was a secondary sensation. A feeling of weightlessness replaced it. It was more than feeling. It was… being. Jack felt almost nonexistent, being tossed between the battling wills of sea and sky, along with the life around him. He felt the creatures flitting about below him, smaller fish, skinny eels, and bigger things as well. Beings that had not been in the North Sea for thousands of years moved throughout the water, not actually creating movements, or ripples. Only their memories remained. Above Jack, there was no life. There was rolling energy, the sight of noise, the howling of the wind, and the smell of the heat that lightning cast off.

A chorus of many voices was around him, and Jack realized it was the voices of the rain, of the water coming down from the sky. He revelled in the sound, the reverberating feeling he felt deep within him. Every living thing on Earth needed water, and the water sang to the living things it nourished.  The song was the soft drip off of a leaf in the midst of a dappled forest. It was the gurgling noise of a waterskin filling up. It was the pounding, the steady drumming that churned up mud and green things from the dry earth. It all came together in one song. The rain came from the clouds, from high heaven, the hard force of it coming from the harsh blowing of the winds from the East.

The wind.

Jack tore his mind away from the song that filled him up, calling him to life. He focused on the winds, instead. The first time he called the wind, he thought of the energy as a flock of birds, in everlasting flight. The winds swooped and soared, the sound of a million wings filled his ears and stirred in his gut.

Jack's first calling to the spirits of the winds also resulted in a waterspout, and the near-death of the entire company that was escaping from the land of the Light Elves. He showed a little more restraint than that, almost seven years later.

Come to me

Spirits of the air

Soaring on feathered wings

Ne’er to touch the ground

Come to me

And end the song fair

The storm that stings

The torrent all ‘round

The rhyming would have sent Thorgil scoffing if she could hear it. She would have called Jack extravagant. To call to the life force, one only needed an honest request and a great deal of calm-- or anger. Contrary to what many people thought, it did not take a book of spells or complicated runes to do magic. Those things aid in the final product, but ultimately they are not needed. One just needs a connection to life, and the emotions that come along with it.

Even so, Jack was fond of his music, and his poetry. So he rhymed.

He repeated the charm three times, clutching St. Columba’s staff tightly in his hand. As he finished the incantation, he felt the wings of the air stir above him, joining the song of the rain. It was not howling, but more like a soft whistle through a chimney, or the rattling of reeds. The sound of wind filling a sail. Jack felt himself slipping, slipping out of the life force. His senses returned him to the gentle rolling of the ship. Yes, gentle.

The smell of salt was carried on the wind that drove the ship steadily towards Thorgil’s homeland. Some of the men on the crew were relaxing on their rowing benches, oars pulled into their laps. Others bailed water, a never ending task. As still others checked on the goods the ship carried, the bilge water receded to a filthy inch that washed gently over everyone’s boots.

Thorgil was looking at Jack when he turned around to catch her eye. She had a loose hold on the tiller, her hands scarred and altogether normal looking. Jack wondered if she ever missed having her silver hand, her wound sustained from fighting the Hound of Hel.

Her hand was windblown, and looked rough from all the seawater that had gotten into it. It was getting long. Short hair was a sign of thralldom, and since he had first known her, she had been steadily growing it out. It reached halfway down her back. Idly, he wondered how it would feel to run his fingers through it, to weave the long tresses into golden braids.

Then, Jack realized he was staring. He shook himself from his thoughts, and ignored Thorgil’s smirk as he looked past her, to the stretch of sea they were leaving behind them.

“We are making good time,” he said. “We should be in Skakki’s halls in a few days, I would think.”

“In two or three,” Thorgil agreed. “I look forward to sleeping in an actual bed.”

“And cooked food.”

“And a bath,” Thorgil said, longingly. Jack made a face at that. “You need one more than me.” she accused.

"Just because I do not bathe every week does not mean I am dirty."

"Yes," she said. "Yes it does.”

Jack chose to change the subject of the conversation. Instead of insulting Thorgil right back, he said, "I wonder if Skakki has grown any more."

"He will be the size of three Jacks."

"Maybe four, if he drinks too much beer."

"His belly will add a Pega or two to his size," Thorgil laughed. She then straightened up. "Jack, tell me how you calmed that storm."

Jack thanked the Lord, and whoever else was listening, for his sun browned skin. Thorgil wouldn't be able to see his blush as he stammered out his explanation, rhyme scheme and all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I'm not dead! Just sort of being killed by all the courses I'm taking this semester. I hope everyone likes this chapter, and doesn't hate me too much for putting in an OC. Loni is the name of a dwarf in the Eddas, but we will just ignore that and pretend it is a name for any old Northman trader. Also, sorry if Jack's magic seems a little weird... I've never written a spell and I tried my best.   
> For the next chapter... we will see Skakki and some of Olaf's old crew on Horse Island! There will be more magic, some loud bird noises, and hopefully as much Northman religion and culture that I can squeeze in. I'm very happy with where this fic is going, even if no one is really sticking around to read it.  
> To PJO and Hobbit friends: I swear I am trying to update Deicide and DTIA... stay tuned, please.  
> As always, thank you for reading!!! Sorry for these long notes! A kudos and a comment is always appreciated! Until next time :^)


	3. Horse Island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Thorgil arrive at Horse Island and see some familiar faces.

Jack grinned and took another great swallow from the drinking horn, which had been making rounds at the great table where Skakki held his court. A lot of the mead it held slopped down the front of his newly gifted tunic, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Not when he was surrounded by old friends, not when Thorgil had an arm over his narrow shoulders and her bright eyes on him.

Three days previous, Loni and his company had finally arrived at Horse Island. When they pulled the ship onto the shore, there was a crowd already waiting for them. Many of the people were clamoring for the goods that Loni had brought on his ship, but there was one group of people along the shore who were cheering and waving their arms as soon as they spotted a sun-darkened boy carrying a wizard’s staff, and a tall, scarred shieldmaiden at the prow.

As soon as the boat scraped against sand, Thorgil threw herself off of the boat, splashing in the surf. She called out in the language of the Northmen, greeting her heart-brothers and -sisters, their mothers, and one stooped old man, who was sitting in a sedan chair set on the sand. Along with Olaf One-Brow’s family, Jack spotted several of his old crew members on the shore. The scarred and pockmarked face of Eric Pretty-face was unmistakable, and he spotted Egil Longspear standing a little ways from the crowd, a broad smile on his face, holding hands with a man and woman on either side of him.

Jack was much more subdued than Thorgil when he greeted the group on the beach. He waited until the boat was well set into the sand on the beach, and then climbed down, taking the hand Loni offered him to help him get off. He did not adjust to the land as well as Thorgil, who was already walking normally along the sand, hugging Dotti and Lotti. Jack had a rolling gait as he made a beeline towards the seated old man, who had a smile on his wrinkled face. Jack stooped down on the sand and greeted his old friend with a hug and a kiss on his bearded cheek.

“Rune!” he cried, not stopping the tears that prickled in his eyes. In all of Jack’s farseeing, he had never seen the old man. Without a sight of his scarred neck, or his gnarled hands, Jack was sure that the elder had already gone to Valhalla or Fólkvangr, forever dwelling in Freyja’s halls. He was overjoyed to see him.

“Little skald,” Rune said in his strong voice, smiling. “I was sure that I would never see you again, lad. Neither in Midgard, nor in what comes after.”

“I am glad that I am able to see you again,” Jack smiled. "How are you faring?"

"I am old," Rune said simply. "I can no longer walk, and am mostly confined to Skakki's halls. It is not so bad, however. Heide keeps me company." Jack was about to respond, but stopped when Rune's old eyes lit up with a gasp. "But how are you Jack? Dragon Tongue has visited once, to deliver the news that he had not died." The old man laughed. "He gave us a scare, standing on the shore with his white beard blowing in the wind. But perhaps we should never have been surprised. It was not the first time he has escaped death. He said something about you going to a school?"

"Yes, that is right," Jack said. "Thorgil and I have been learning much about the life force. The school is in the Islands of the Blessed."

"Truly?" Rune asked. "You must tell me of all you have learned! Tell me, what is it tha-"

He was cut off by a deep voice, thickened with a Sami accent.

"Little ssskald," the voice said. "Or not so little anymore," was added thoughtfully,

Jack stood up from where he was stooping in the sand, and looked at the woman standing before him.

Heide had more wrinkles than the last time he had seen her. Her dark eyes were lined in black, and her now silver-streaked hair was bound tightly in twin braids that reached past her waist. She had frown lines and crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, but she was still a very beautiful woman. She was dressed in the style of the Northmen, rather than of her people, in a blue dress and a red hangerok. The red apron was fasted with great silver brooches, studded with pieces of amber, and etched with the design of a great writhing creature. She was not the only one dressed extraordinarily. From the way all of Skakki's family dressed, it seemed the kingdom on Horse Island was prospering.

"Heide," Jack said, bowing his head. "It is good to see you again."

"Commme," she said, drawing out the word in her smoky voice. She held out her arms for an embrace. "It has been far too long, Jack." Jack stepped into her arms, noting that he was still shorter than her.

"Now," she said, as they parted. She fixed her eyes on Jack, and he felt the air tremble as she examined him. "You have much to lore to ssshare, Dragon Tongue's heir." This was said quite solemnly.

Heide was a mysterious wisewoman, learned in lore from all over the North. Always draped in charms and staves from a diverse group of gods, she was altogether an intimidating person. She had scared Jack when he first met her as a young boy, and she still cast a mighty presence. This solemnity she had, the air of power that shook the very air around her, could be cut down by one thing, however.

This was exemplified when she clucked her tongue and tugged on the fabric of his worn tunic. Or perhaps it was when she let out a pained noise at his curly hair cropped short, not reaching past his ears. It also could have been the sniff when she spotted the bit of stubble on his chin. It was all rather like what Dotti and Lotti did later on when they saw the young bard, all grown up. Along with all she knew about the wide world, Heide was above all things a mother.

“We will get you inssside the hall,” she spoke. “And keep you sssafe until you leave us again.”

Jack was sure she would have kept doting on him, but Heide’s voice stopped with a laugh when Jack was pulled to a strong chest by a thick pair of arms. This would have been fine, besides the squeezing, but the boy spluttered a bit when a thoroughly whiskery kiss planted on the crown of his head.

“Jack!” Skakki cried, turning Jack around in his arms so that he could just barely crook his neck up against the broad chest, to see Skakki’s beard and slanted eyes sparkling down at him. “All grown up!”

He placed Jack back down on the sand, and clapped a hand on the Saxon’s shoulder. Jack’s knees buckled, and he tried his best to ignore Thorgil’s sniggering behind her heart-brother’s shoulder. He was a little surprised by the Northman’s greeting. In his past dealings with Thorgil’s family, Skakki had always treated Jack with respect, but never with outright affection. But perhaps Jack’s times with the young man were a bit tainted, since in most of them he had still been grieving over The Bard’s assumed death.

“You are looking rather large, yourself,” Jack smiled back at the man. Skakki’s blond hair was unbound, but for a gold-threaded headband on his forehead. His mustache was braided into a long beard, whose end was capped with a single gold bead. If Jack ignored the different eyes on the man in front of him, he could have believed that he was looking up at Olaf One-Brow once more.

Skakki was dressed as befitted a young karl in his prime, with a dazzling red tunic on over green leggings. He wore a large silver hammer pendant on a golden chain, and his fingers were clad with many rings. He wore no leg wrappings, but his feet looked splendid in brown leather shoes, tied off with throngs at the ankle. The tops of the shoes had some soft looking fabric sewed onto them, in a soft blue that reminded Jack of a robin’s egg.

“Must be all the mead,” the Northman told Jack, with a smile. He put his arm around Thorgil, and spoke to her. “I have spoken with the man who took you to us, and he seems like a well enough sort.”

“He is a good man,” Thorgil said. “Although his beard is a bit too short for my tastes.”

Skakki laughed at that. “We shall talk more in my halls, and have something to eat. Let me show the two of you my lands.”

And so, that morning, Olaf One-Brow’s family, with Jack and Loni tagging along, began the long trek to the Horse Lord’s white halls.

After the reunion on the beach, Loni welcomed the other Northmen to his ship on the beach, exchanging salt and amber for grain, fresh water, and a few sheep. Skakki in particular was a good customer, buying many salt loaves from the grim faced trader. Loni and his crew only stayed on the island long enough to trade some things, and to replenish their fresh water. They were there for three days, and then turned their sights to the Northlands for more trading. When Loni departed, he thanked Jack and Thorgil for all their help during the voyage. He clapped both of them on the shoulder, and gave them gifts. For Thorgil, a set of silver beads for her golden hair, and a small dagger, to be placed in a boot. Jack received a pair of soft kidskin gloves, and an embroidered headband. Both of them got a clap on the shoulder, and a small smile. He had sailed away in the early morning, the skies dove-grey, and the sea casting a chill in the air. As the merchant ship disappeared on the horizon, Jack thought of and was grateful for the new friend. He had met many people in his relatively short life, and he wondered how many more he would meet on this voyage.

Once Loni and his business had left the island, preparations were finally complete for a great feast to be held in Skakki’s halls. His whole family, along with several important women and men from the village, were to come together to celebrate the arrival of their lord’s sister and her faithful retainer.

Jack rather resented being called a retainer, but did not mind so much when the feast happened. He frequently stole bites of food from Thorgil’s plate, and drinks from her cup, claiming that as retainer, he needed to check everything for poison. He took extra care to test lots of the pork and grouse for “poison”.

By the end of the night, he was not sure what quite possessed him to tell the Northmen of a Christian saint, but that is exactly what the boy did. Perhaps it was all the mead.

He had recited a tale of the martyred Saint Agnes to the Northman audience, recalling what his father once told him. This was, of course, after he sloshed drink on the tunic Skakki had gifted him. He put a reminder in the back of his head: do not tell stories after spilling liquids on oneself. Not a pleasant experience.

“She was beautiful, and young, and pure,” Jack had spoken, referring to the chaste Saint Agnes. “And she was desired by many. But she claimed that her heart and her body belonged to Jesus Christ. She would have no husband.”

“Smart girl,” Thorgil added to that. “Perhaps not all Christians are lackwits.”

Jack ignored that, and continued with his story. “Agnes declared that she would take no husband as long as she stayed away from the touch of a man, and close to the heart of jesus Christ. She prayed to God to deliver her from the grasping hands of men, and he answered her prayers.”

With that, he paused, taking a long drink from the horn still in his hands. He made a great show of taking several swallows, and smacking his lips, enjoying the flavor. (And it was quite good, though it would never compare to Aiden’s heather ale.) He smiled to himself as his audience stared at him, waiting to see how his god saved the young girl. Jack especially delighted in Skakki’s dark-eyed glare, his narrow, slanted eyes narrowed even more as Jack used his own trick on him.

“Come now!” he finally said. “My mead is not so excellent. Get on with it!”

Jack grinned, and went on with his story.

“When Agnes refused to take a husband as long as she stayed a maiden, her suitors’ fathers decided that they would send her to a brothel, without her consent, to be defiled.”

“That’s awful!” was the cry from his audience. “A free woman should never be treated so!”

Dotti and Lotti both looked unimpressed with that.

“Aye,” Jack said. “But she was a Christian, and the Roman kings hated Christians. Anyway, when they tied up Agnes, to drag her through the streets of Rome, the ropes would not tie. Whenever they touched her, they would simply unravel. They kept trying to bind her, but Agnes stayed free. But that was not the only miracle God performed that day.”

Jack tried again to take his break, but his plans were ruined. “Not again!” Skakki had cried. “No more breaks! Tell us the thrice-damned story.”

The boy grinned again at his host, (who looked as if he was quite through with the young wizard), and did as he was told. “The guards assigned to transport turned around, to discuss what to do with the young girl. ‘Kill her now!’ some said. ‘She is not worth the trouble, this Christian!’ ‘We will put her in chains, in place of ropes!’ cried some. Still others said ‘We will just drag her with our own hands!’. They saw sense in the last statement, and all of the guards turned around to put their hands on Agnes. But she was not there. While the guards took their time to argue, God covered Agnes head to toe in hair. With her disguise, she was able to get away.”

“Hair?” Skakki asked. “Does that mea-”

“HAIR?” Eric Pretty-face yelled. “DID SHE TURN INTO A DOG, THEN?”

“Yes, what does that mean?” Egil Longspear asked.

“Maybe she turned into a bear,” Thorgil suggested. “To maul the men who sought to hurt her.”

“Sounds like Frith,” Skakki said. “Was this Saint Agneese a half-troll?”

“Saint Agnes was not a half-troll!” Jack said. “And I am not sure what it means, that is the way my father told it to me.”

“Perhaps Giles should have better explained,” Thorgil mused. “Or perhaps he did, and you were too thick to understand.”

If Jack had been in worse spirits, or if he had not had a large amount of mead already that evening, he might have gotten angry at that. But he was happy with his old friends, and he had, in fact, drunk a lot of mead.

He simply smiled at Thorgil, and shook his head when Heide asked him if there was more to his story. Of course there was, but the ending was no good. No one wants to hear about a little girl’s head getting cut off. As Jack had learned long ago, it was best to end a story before things got sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short little transition chapter to tide everyone over until my AP exams are over. I hope everyone enjoyed seeing Olaf's family! You will see a lot more of them next chapter.  
> As always, thank you so much for reading! A kudos and/or a comment is always appreciated :^)


	4. Horse Island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weapons training, sagas, and an almost-confession.

Jack readied his bow, narrowing his eyes at the target several yards in front of him. He pulled the bowstring tight, and then let it loose.

_thwack!_

The arrow embedded itself in the wood which held the straw-stuffed target up. Better than last time, Jack thought, eyeing the arrows that littered the ground in front of the target.

“You are terrible,” Skakki said cheerfully. Egil didn’t say anything, as he was too busy laughing. Jack thanked whichever gods were listening that Thorgil was not there to witness his incompetency with a bow.

“Well, what else would you expect?” Jack groused. “The only aiming I have ever done is throwing rocks at birds!”

“And I suppose you could only do that because Saxon birds are fat and lazy?”

“If you two are just going to tease me, and not help at all, I do not see why I should be doing this,” Jack said, setting his bow on the ground. “And since all Saxons are fat and lazy, I think I shall go and eat all the jam I saw in your larder this morning.”

Skakki stopped Jack with a broad hand on his shoulder. “Stay,” he said. “I will teach you how to shoot. It is a useful skill!”

“And if nothing else,” Egil added. “We will be able to save the elderberry jam from your greedy fingers.”

“Don’t you have a farm to take care of?” Jack asked the Northman. “And better things to do besides tease me endlessly?”

“I have many responsibilities,” Egil said. “But this is more fun. My wife and husband can take care of things while I watch you struggle.”

“Was he always this awful?” Jack called to Skakki, who at the other end of the field, picking up the arrows Jack had shot. “Did I just not notice?”

Skakki just laughed. The _kindaskitur_.

Jack flung himself to the ground, deciding to sit for as long as he was able.

"Why the foul mood, little skald?" Egil asked from his spot in the grass. "Surely Thorgil teases you worse than us old men?"

"I'm used to that," Jack explained. "In all my times that I have been among you Northmen, none have jested with me as you do now."

"Ah," Egil said. "Perhaps it is because we are more comfortable? We have just returned from a successful pillagi-- er, trade expedition. Or maybe we jest so easily because you are no longer a suckling baby, who would cry at the slightest provocation."

"I was never like that! I took Thorgil's taunts quite well when I was a lad."

"You're still a lad," Skakki said, walking over with the discarded arrows bundled in his hands. "When we are all old and grey and in our dotage, you shall still be our little skald."

Jack frowned. "Just teach me to shoot, O Horse Lord."

Hours later, with a set of pinched-red and tired arms, Jack flung himself onto one of the long benches in Skakki's great hall. Heide had a soft smile at the head of the table as she watched the boy loll his head onto Thorgil's shoulder.

"Long day?" the shield maiden asked, jabbing an elbow into Jack's side.

"I never want to see a bow again," Jack moaned, moving a hand over his torso to guard it from any other sharp elbows.

"Is that what my brother made you do all day?"

"Aye," Jack said. "My arms are pinched from the bow string."

"Poor child," Thorgil cooed. "Little baby bird, hurt by a twanging string."

"What did you do today?" Best to ignore the jest, Jack thought.

Thorgil spat into the straw that lay on the floor of the hall before answering. "Women's things," she said. "Terrible."

"Perhaps we should trade," Jack offered. "I can work at Heide's loom and you can deal with your brother."

"Do you not know, Jack? We Northmen are all about suffering." She finally pushed Jack's head off her shoulder. "Regardless, we mustn't get too comfortable here. We have to get to Niðavellir before the winter storms set in."

“We have several moons yet. And it is not as if we have not journeyed through cold weather yet.”

Thorgil spat again.

As it was, the two spent around fourteen days on the island. There were many things to do in Skakki’s lands, and there was also the matter of getting enough fresh water and preserved food to last the duo and the crew that would go along with them to take them to Ivar the Boneless’ lands, and Schlaup’s halls.

Most days started the same: Jack normally awoke first, and would break his fast with whoever else was awake. Rune was often seated at the long table in the center of the hall, and would eat with Jack as the rest of the household began to wake up.

Rune ate slowly; his gnarled hands could not move quickly, and even when he made slow progress, it pained him. Even so, he smiled and listened attentively to Jack as they both tore bread and sipped fresh water from glazed clay cups. The old man’s eyes lit up as Jack described his years of schooling at the hands of the Wise who still dwelt on the Isles.

He spoke of his nights spent in the hazel woods that surrounded the stone structure of the school. Of the normal things that called the woods their home, mostly. Soft-eared does that would curl up by your side when it snowed. Birds, smarter than the ones who sang in Midgard, more intelligent than even the owls Jack and Thorgil had aided in Jotunheim. They caroled and cawed and delivered news of the wide world beyond the isles. _Yes, it is winter in the land of the Saxons, they would say. The pock-marked lass with a wing ‘cross her face is keeping warm in the Saxon lands_. They told Thorgil of her people’s raids against the Christians along the North Sea. They would irritably inform the both of them that Seafarer was alive and yes, he is very well, and very fast. _They would never regrow the feathers on their tail ends!_ There were voles burying through the ground, rabbits bounding between the trunks of trees, and at night, small hedgehogs nuzzling at the ground, searching for food to eat.

And then, well… there were things in those woods not of Midgard. There were wraiths who would wander between the hazels and the ash, harmless but for the chill they sent down your spine. Hobgoblins, too, capering and skirling and searching for the nuts they loved. (Never the Bugaboo, or the Nemesis, or Mumsie, however. None of the Bugaboo’s court would leave Northumbria or stray too far from Pega, whom they still hoped would be queen.) There were less friendly beings too. The Wise taught their students to repel these beings. Anything from the nine realms could learn to navigate the twisting pathways of the woods. Elves, bitter and vengeful ones who had left Partholis’ realm would sometimes appear. Though they were to fade from the world like mist shredding in the wind, they could still fight. Jack still felt pain in his back from elf-shot, and he had scars hidden beneath his clothes, caused by all manner of elvish blade. St. Columba’s staff, obviously, was good on sending the Fair Folk along their not-so-merry way. Ogres, sometimes, making an incredible racket with the breaking of branches and their stomping feet. Best to avoid those, usually. Never a dwarf, though, was seen in those woods. They did not like leaving their mountain kingdoms.

“Dwarves?” Rune had asked when Jack mentioned them. “Why do you mention the great forgers, if you never saw one?”

“Er,” Jack said. “I suppose they are just on my mind. Are you aware of where myself and Thorgil are headed on our journey?” Rune did not, and said as much. “We are tasked with retrieving a dwarvish ring from one of the mountain kingdoms.”

“Niðavellir, eh?” Rune responded. “How splendid!”

And that was all he said on the subject.

After his _dágmal_ , there were many things to occupy a young man’s time on Horse Island. Most of the time, Jack asked Thorgil or another Northman to help him with his fighting.

At the School of Bards, students were taught to think with their minds. To connect with the life force, you did not need muscle. One only needed a relatively clear mind and the ability to disconnect from the restraints of being human. Of being locked in a cage.

So after years of schooling, Jack’s arms and legs were as scrawny as they were when he was a lad of thirteen or so. And Thorgil always felt inclined to point this out as the hacked away at each other with wooden practice swords.

“Loni was right,” she chided, thrusting her sword towards a weak spot in Jack’s defense, on his left side. He brought up his sword, blocking the hit. Thorgil shouted when Jack whacked her side in the same movement. She kicked out at his leg and lashed out savagely with the practice sword, landing a hit on Jack’s chest that was sure to bruise later. He yelped loudly, as Thorgil added with a laugh: “You have the arms of a soft spring chick!”

“You waste your breath with insults,” Jack told his friend. “Though praps I should not complain. I would not like to fight you with all the strength you have!”

“Wise of you,” Thorgil said. “Though I shall never be at full strength again.” She ducked beneath a swipe that Jack made.

“Being a berserker does not give you your full strength,” Jack said, breathing heavily at this point. “You will always be strong, Thorgil.”

Thorgil’s lips became a flat line. She met all of Jack’s sword strikes, forcing him backwards, towards the fence that marked off the space for the training grounds. He needed to push Thorgil in the opposite direction, so he did not get pinned against or flipped over the fence. But he did not have the strength. After Thorgil landed several hits on his unprotected skin, he could feel his arms becoming tired, his strikes less potent. He was not surprised when Thorgil finally managed to knock him over. She hit Jack’s side, hard, and he doubled over in pain. Then, she dug her pommel into his stomach, knocking him into the grass that sprouted out of the ground in the training ring.

She then threw herself on the grass next to Jack, leaning over him. No longer did she look grim, pale, with her lips drawn tight. Without the distraction of the fight, her anger showed freely on her face. Her eyebrows knitted together, and her mouth was in a sneer, making the scars on her face twist in her rage. Blood filled her freckled face, making the scars from her fight with the troll bear flare bright red. The ever-blowing wind from the sea whipped her golden hair around her head, making her look like the warrior out of legend that she was.

“I do not need your pity, Saxon,” Thorgil bit out. “I lost my rage, and my hand, and all you do is look at me with sympathy in your eyes!”

“Not pity,” Jack told her. He just laid there in the grass, not moving. He looked up into the grey eyes of the snarling princess. “Never pity. I do not lie, Jill. You are the strongest warrior I have ever known. No matter what you lose, you have your will. That will never fail.”

Her hair created a curtain around both of their heads. Though the wind stirred it, it still created a private space between them. Jack was all of the sudden very aware of the fact that they were alone in the training ring. “Then what is it?” she asked.

“What is what?”

“You look at me, and it is not as you used to. Not as when we were children. What has changed?”

Jack hesitated as he thought of what excuse to say, Thorgil sat back up. She drew her legs up to her bound chest, and turned her fierce eyes away from Jack.

He sat up as well, but leaned back on his forearms, letting most of his body rest against the grass.

“It is nothing, dearest,” he eventually said. An outright lie, of course. Thorgil seemed to know this. She lifted her hand from where it rested on her knee and brought it down to her side. She very slowly intertwined her weapon-calloused fingers with Jack’s, whose hands were also calloused, but by more gentle, homely things. A burn from turning over an oat cake that was too hot. Hardened spots on his palm from holding a farm tool. The tips of  his fingers, pressed and rubbed smooth from the strings of The Bard’s whalebone harp.

“ _Dýrr_ ,” Thorgil said.

That sort of thing, of course, only happened when sparring with Thorgil. Skakki was more wont to tackle Jack to the ground than hold his hand.

Along with sword, Jack also trained with daggers and with the bow and arrow. Two weeks was not long enough to become proficient with the bow, but Jack still retained some of the knife fighting skill that Olaf One-Brow taught him. He was fast, and though not as small as he was when he was a lad of eleven summers, still smaller than most of the Northmen. And he had learned many dirty tricks from his time as a slave in the Northland. It was always a joy when, armed with just a small knife and his wits, he could take down a giant like Skakki.

Skakki did not find much joy in it, though he roared in laughter when he swiped Jack off of his feet as well. No matter how well one fights with a knife, they can still be knocked over when an arm the size of a tree trunk sweeps past their ankles.

Fighting, although a favorite Northman pass time, was not the only thing to do on the island.

As warlike as the Northmen were, they were still able to enjoy a good saga. Many of the nights spent in Skakki’s hall were filled with good drink and better song. And many a day Jack spent seated next to Rune, singing songs, reciting poetry, or writing verse of their own.

One night, Jack had an elbow on the table, and a cup of cider in his hand. He was listening to Thorgil tell her own tale. That is, the Saga of Thorgil Silverhand. Having told the tale many times, (and written it himself), Jack did not pay too close attention. He stopped listening some time around the tricking and slaughter of the dragonlets in Jotunheim. Something about “ _the wolf headed warrior, guided by the servant of Odin, steel serpent in her silver hands_ ”... Jack remembered when he first recited the saga, and how he thought it was his best work. All true, of course, but it was much more impressive when surrounded by the Streams of Life, with the salmon leaping by your side. Less so when surrounded by drunken vikings and farmers. So, the young man let himself drift away. He listened with one ear to the steady cantation of his dearest one’s voice and let the life force draw him into its folds.

A land blessed by the yarthkins does not forget it. Ere the ground on Horse Island bore full harvests. The water was ever sweet and full of what makes things alive. The life force around the place was also full of the influence of the _landvættir_. Everything was more intense, more green and vibrant. Jack felt… Jack didn’t feel anything, really. He was not Jack when he was in this place. He was just part of everything, he existed. He was.

All around he could feel the footsteps of all the men who had walked the ground on the island. Good men, like Bjorn Skull-Splitter could be sensed. Worse men, too, like Einar, or the Pictish kings who came before him. Not that any of them were there, no. They were departed, living in realms of the dead, whether it be Valhalla or wherever the Picts went when they died.

Death. Unlife.

It did no good to think of it while trying to commune with the life force. Dwelling on men was never an aid in connecting with life, not when most of them had cut themselves off from it.

He directed his mind outside of the solid walls of Skakki’s halls, yet still away from the sea that threw itself against the cliff. Jack focused on the fields outside.

Rolling hills and rippling grass, undisturbed but by the wingbeats of birds for centuries. Despite the name men gave to the land, the land did not long hold the memory of hooves pounding against it. Rather, it knew the burrowing of small rodents, the buzzing of insects, and the calls of thousands of birds, over hundreds of years, all finding joy in wheeling over the foamy stretches of the sea.

Yes, the land and the skies both felt joy in the birds that dwelt in both of their domains. The beating of wings, yet also the small patter of talons against rocky crags. The dive when a single soul sees the silver shine of a fish in the water, but the coo and hum of thousands at the chicks that broke their way out of a multitude of eggs. The life force found most freedom in the birds, who were not bound by land, sea, or sky. Perhaps that is wh-

“-ack!”

A hand on his shoulder.

“Jack!”

The young bard pulled his awareness out of the rise and fall of the life force, and instead put it in a more corporeal place. His own body.

He turned his head towards the source of contact. Thorgil had her hand on him, and she was saying something.

“Hm?”

“I said, you should give us Olaf’s praise-poem.”

“We are sharing all of my poetry, tonight, are we?” Jack asked the shield maiden.

“It seems so,” she replied.

“We have yet to hear Beowulf,” Rune pointed out. “But perhaps that can be saved for another night?”

Jack nodded at that, then cleared his throat a few times, until the hall quieted. Once most everyone in the hall was looking at him, he began.

_Listen, ring-bearers, while I speak_

_Of the glories of battle, of Olaf most brave._

_Generous is he, that striker of terror._

_Lucky are they who sit in Olaf’s hall,_

_Gifted with glory, treasure, and fame._

_The wolf-headed men call him leader._

_Odin’s skull-pickers name him friend._

On he went, reciting the praise-song. Though everyone in the room had heard the saga several times, they still clapped loudly once Jack had finished the tale. (Which was quite long-- Olaf had done many deeds, and many of them foul. Not that the Northmen minded.)

Nights were not always spent in Skakki’s halls, surrounded by the sounds of Northmen eating and drinking. A few nights, Jack would go out by himself to wander to the edge of the island. He did not arm himself, except with St. Columba’s staff and robe. He would bring along something to eat, sometimes. Smoked meat or an apple. But sometimes he was too busy meditating to eat. He would sit on the beach, or on the edge of the rocky crags that were on the north side of the island, and simply listen to the sea.

From years of living next to it, and bobbing along in it in coracles or slender Northman ships, one would think that Jack would get tired of the sea. But he never did.

As a boy, Jack had not understood why the Bard loved living next to the sea so much, especially on the cliff in the Roman hut. But that had changed. The life force was close, here. It was strongest at the border between worlds. While it was true of the borders between, say, Midgard and Jotunheim, it could be the border between much more common things, such as land and sea, sea and sky. The life force made itself known in the places in between, even to those not trained to feel it.

Jack wondered how close the life force would be underground, in a mountain kingdom.

When Jack and Thorgil left, there were a few tears shed. Jack brushes them from his eyes when he kisses Rune goodbye- the old warrior is too old to go on the sea voyage to Ivar’s lands. He makes no move to brush them away when Heide pulls him close to her chest, when she says farewell, “but not forrr too long,” she adds, with a kiss to his brow.

Thorgil grumbled under her breath when Heide gives her a kiss as well, but Jack was almost sure that she still appreciated it.

Goodbyes can only last so long, and much too soon for Jack’s taste, Skakki’s ship, and Egil’s ship trailing closely behind, left Horse Island behind. Jack watched the island from the deck of the dragon ship until it was just a pale line on the horizon.

Once the island was gone from sight, he turned and walked to the prow of the _drekkar_ , where Thorgil was once again plying the tiller.

Together, they turned north.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I can never say that one enough.  
> And as always, a kudos and/or a comment will always be appreciated! See you all for chapter 5.


	5. Northland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Thorgil celebrate Midsummer's Eve alongside the Northmen, and Jack is overly invested in what he is to wear to the celebrations.

Jack gasped aloud at the sight of the seven foot tall, bristly half-troll diving into the cold waters of the North Sea. He watched with a gaping mouth as Schlaup waded through the high, churning waters, calling out loudly in the language of the Northmen:

“My brothers! My sister!” Then it was Schlaup’s turn to be shocked. “And Jack!”

“Hello, Schlaup!” Jack called, albeit a little weakly. He was drowned out by Thorgil and Skakki’s crowing greetings and compliments at their brother, and the _WHUMP!_ of Schlaup throwing himself on the deck of the longship.

His flaky white skin and bristly orange hair dripped water onto the deck as he grinned with crooked teeth at the crew.

“Hello,” he said simply.

Skakki stomped over and slapped a broad hand on Schlaup’s even broader shoulder. “Could you not wait ‘til we were on land, brother?”

“Was excited,” Schlaup told him, sheepishly.

And he had all rights to be. It had taken Skakki’s crew a little under three weeks to reach the lands of Ivar the Boneless. They were just in time for Midsummer’s Eve. All the Northmen on the ship were ready for the celebrations, but Jack was not quite sure how he should feel. He did not, after all, know how exactly the Northmen celebrated their Midsummer.

From the time they had beached in the fjord, Jack could have indeed thought that Midsummer celebrations lasted a week instead of a single day. Preparations were made all hours of the day, and every day, as the Northmen had no sort of Sabbath. Wreaths were woven, and halls, people, and animals alike were all bedecked with sweet-smelling grasses and flowers. The wooden doors of Ivar’s remarkably sowbug-shaped hall were especially garlanded, with a vast array of plants. Schlaup’s household, even though Ygdith and her daughters did not celebrate any of the eight blots, was still busy. Almost the entire male household of Skakki’s halls had come along on the journey, after all, and there was much food to be made to feed all of them.

“Why did you all come?” Jack had asked Skakki one night, while Ygdith ran around in her expensive skirts, demanding the Northmen to stop washing their hands, immediately, because _who knows what sort of foul demons that could attract!_ “Surely not all of these men wish to celebrate Midsummer with King Ivar.”

“ _Nej_ ,” Skakki had replied. “We are not here for the _Midsommarblot_. We are here to collect more men for our summer raids. We will leave soon after the celebration, once you and Thorgil have started your trek North.”

“Ah,” said Jack.

“Yes.” Skakki grimaced. “We have to survive somehow, Jack. Do not hate us for these raids. We will not be attacking your village, so rest easily.”

Jack did not respond, nor did he recite any of his songs in Schlaup’s halls that night. Sometimes it slipped his mind that while these Northmen were his friends, they were also warriors, many of the berserkers. These were the bloodthirsty people who destroyed Lindisfarne and gave Brother Aiden his melancholy.

In Jack’s village, Midsummer’s Eve was celebrated with a feast at the chief’s house, and drink, and song. Bonfires were lit, and children wore woven garlands of flowers as they ran in and out of the chief’s halls. Since Brother Aiden had moved into his little beehive, however, the celebrations were happening with far less frequency. Jack supposed his family only celebrated still because of his mother. And the hobgoblins, perhaps.

The only other Midsummer he had participated in involved the Devil, a great deal of fire, and a bit of human sacrifice. He figured the Northmen's celebrations were somewhere in between.

That was right, at least once the Moon was in the sky. But the Sun took a long time to fall in the Northland. While there was light in the sky, all was seriousness. Most of the day was consumed by law proceedings and judgements.

Jack was woken some time before sunrise on Midsummer’s Eve by a cock’s cry. With nothing to do until Ygdith and her thralls brought out the _dágmal_ , Jack wandered around the grounds that had once belonged to Olaf One-Brow. Jack did not have many happy memories of these lands, not for the most part, but he still let his legs carry him where they would.

He went out far, at first, out to the barley fields. They were small compared to the fields on Giles’ land, since Northmen could not farm most months of the year. The days were too short, and too cold, for too long. Still, for being a tanner’s wife, Ygdith managed to keep the fields in good shape. Jack supposed she made Schlaup and her daughters take care of things. The young bard smiled to himself as he thought of Ymma and Yltha bent over and sowing barley, instead of being treated like the queens they figured themselves to be.

He walked out of the fields, and, heading back towards Schlaup’s long wooden halls, found himself approaching the pig pens. There, by the fence, where Braveheart— the Bard— found Jack after flying off when they entered Ivar the Boneless’ lands. In the fence, long-legged and pink-skinned sows snuffled along the ground, searching for something delicious to eat. Jack was pleased to see that the pig pen’s were very clean. The pigs were pleased too. The sows Jack had cleaned and fed wild mustard to so many years ago were all long dead, so none of the pigs in the pen recognized him. All the same, when he stepped inside their pen, they crowded around him, nosing at his waist bag, trying to find a treat or two. As they butted him gently, he scratched them idly behind the ears. He left them after a while and wandered into the storage shed by the pig enclosure, and marvelled at how much smaller it had seemed when he was a boy. He looked up, and saw the rafter he had clung to and sang as Golden Bristles screamed underneath him. And where he stood on the floor was where he hugged and crooned in the hulking troll-boar’s ear.

There is of course, only so much you can look at in a storage shed. And only so much pleasant reminiscing you can do in a place where you were once in thrall. It was hard to ignore the unpleasant memories in some of the places he wandered into. The stables, where he cut Golden Bristles out of his cage, causing Lucy’s imprisonment. The main hall of Schlaup’s home, where many terrible things happened when Olaf was its owner. Right in the door, where he vomited after eating the ghastly graffisk. The corner on the East side of the hall, next to hearth, where Lucy sat and wandered around her own mind. All the places where Jack received a sharp kick from one of Olaf’s numerous children. And all the places where Thorgil poked and prodded and pinched, where she had yelled and screamed, her face flushed red, her chest heaving in her blood-rage.

When the rest of the household was waking up, they found Jack already dressed and ready and sitting on one of the long, low benches lined up against Schlaup’s numerous trestle-tables. Schlaup looked overjoyed at how bard-ly Jack looked in his flashy clothing— Skakki looked a bit put-out, still in his rumpled clothing from the day before. Jack was wearing the clothes Partholis had gifted him before he confronted Father Severus that day so many winters ago. A swan-white tunic, and green leggings underneath it. He wore sturdy, dark leather shoes and wool socks dyed a brilliant blue. The white tunic had cuffs and the neck embroidered in gold and silver thread, and the neck was fastened by a pin of golden mistletoe. The boy had not decided what cloak he should wear: St. Columba’s, or the one from the light-elves. He had both laid out on his bedroll to grab as he was walking out the door when it was time to go to the celebration. To better fit in with the Northman, Jack had a soft leather band on his head. It was picked out in red thread; the small stitches formed several salmon above his brow.

Once everyone else had eaten and gotten dressed, (Jack was delighted to see that Thorgil was also wearing the enchanted clothing she received from the elven queen), Jack had a few last things to do before he was ready to arrive in King Ivar’s halls. He had Thorgil’s help, to have him further seem a Northman.

“Skakki has told me that this is from Miklagarðr, from those who call themselves Byzantines,” said Thorgil, holding up a blown-glass phial, filled with a black substance. “He gifted it to me for a ghastly purpose.”

“What purpose?” asked Jack, wondering what she could possibly do with whatever was in the cloudy-blue glass of the little bottle.

“There is a new religion, among some of the Byzantines. Their women go veiled, and they line their eyes with this mixture. Apparently the men of Miklagarðr find it charming,” Thorgil said. “That is why Skakki gave it to me: he said it will attract some men. I do not wish to use it, so I thought I would put it on you. We Northmen line our eyes in a similar way, so wearing this may help you seem like one of us.”

“I’m sure most of them will remember me. Has the tale of Queen Frith faded so quickly?”

“Nay,” said Thorgil. “But you have changed greatly since then, Jack. You are Dragon Tongue’s apprentice, truly, but you have come into your own. Most will barely even be able to tell you are Saxon.”

“Ah,” Jack breathed. “Well, then make me look as much like a Viking as you can, I suppose. Try not to put my eyes out, dearest.”

Thorgil leaned in close, and ringed Jack’s eyes in black. It was rather unlike the shieldmaiden to be gentle, but she breathed steadily and smiled as she took care of making up Jack’s eyes. Once Thorgil saw the kohl on Jack, she declared that it looked so decent that she would wear it as well. Her gentle air shucked off, as quickly as it descended.

She looked very comely, Jack thought, dressed like the princess she should have been raised as, her grey eyes lined in black, bracelets sliding over one another and chiming on her wrists. Her scars and her sun-marked skin only made her look stronger, and more wise. Her scars from her fight with the troll-bear in Jotunheim flushed bright red, showing that she was quite excited for the day’s celebrations. Her raiment was gaily colored, and she wore her hair unbound, the gold of it streaming down her back. She was clothed in the brilliant blue tunic and scarlet leggings from Partholis, and she had  kidskin boots on her feet. Though she was dressed like a man, it came to Jack’s mind that he had never seen a lady so beautiful. Thorgil wore a green cloak was pinned with a silver clasp on her left shoulder, to keep her sword arm free. The cloak was covered in embroidered designs of coiling vines and leaves: it reminded Jack of when the Forest Lord’s subjects buried her in their slow, green arms. (He decided not to tell her that.) Around her hips was a belt of leather and gold, her sword and scabbard hanging from it, the hilt of her weapon bejeweled with gems from the hoard the Shoshone had gifted her. The only thing around her long neck was Olaf’s silver Mjöllnir charm, strung on a long gold chain.

Jack was not left out when it came to bedecking himself in jewelry. When he mentioned that he did not have anything bright and suitable enough, Schlaup dashed out of the room. He stomped quickly back in, a wooden box in his hand.

“You need something shiny,” the half-troll said. “You take what you like! I have enough to spare, little Jack.”

“I thank you, Schlaup!”

He did not appreciate being called little, but he still took some jewelry out of the box. A few thin gold rings, and a necklace strung with amber beads.

It was a matter of a few minutes, and the whole household was ready to go. As everyone filed out of the hall, they each took a garland of plants to wear. Thorgil had a crown of woven grass. Jack wore a necklace of sweet-smelling lavender, and a crown of yew leaves. (The yew leaves made him look even more wizardly— he had decided to wear St. Columba’s robe.)

It did not take long for the group to get to King Ivar’s halls. They travelled down the road that ran alongside Schlaup's lands and the adjacent forest. Jack, Thorgil, Skakki, and Schlaup led the way along the path. Behind them were several of Skakki's brothers, and a few of his sisters. One of the older boys was sitting on the seat of a covered wagon. No one would tell Jack what was inside it. Of the tanner's wife and her daughters, there was no sign. They did not wish to celebrate Midsummer alongside the Northmen they were now a part of.

It was at Ivar's hall that Jack was at first disappointed with the celebration.. As they watched a man argue that he deserved more silver for the goat he sold— and Ivar the Boneless’ ignoring of the plea— Jack leaned over to the finely dressed shield maiden at his side.

“I would have thought Northmen would have a more lively celebration on this day,” he whispered lowly, in Saxon, just to avoid any offended Northmen. Best not to offend these warlike people, after all. Most of them were armed.

“Most of the day is like this,” Thorgil told him. “The _thing_ will last several hours, and we will get all this seriousness out of the way. Then night will fall and we shall have our bonfire and our fun.”

“Fun,” Jack repeated. “Say, when we were children, and on that beach outside Alfheim…”

“ _Ja_?”

“Did you really mean it when you say you battle with trolls during Midsummer?”

“Why would I lie to you, Jack?” said Thorgil, with a wolfish grin. All her grins were wolfish of course, but this one especially. Jack could not quite tell whether or not she was joking.

The dealing of the law was performed for many hours, though not all was judging. A bit after the midday meal, a few bearded and important looking men, including Skakki, began to talk about the summer raids. Where they were going, who would be coming, what spoils would come home, and how they would be dealt out. Jack scowled throughout the whole discussion, though he did not leave the hall. That would have caused a scene, and produced many unhappy Northmen. And there was no going to the life force for refuge. Though nearly ten winters had passed, King Ivar’s halls were still haunted by the presence of Queen Frith. Had Jack attempted to call to life, he feared he would come into contact with something far more cold and far less pleasant. Jack just sat quietly and sang under his breath. And if they were songs of gentle breezes and swift gusts instead of tales of famous kings and warriors, that was only known to him. He contented himself with watching inexplicable puffs of air knocking off hats and lifting up tunics. At least for a while.

Jack was shaken awake and greeted with the sight of tables laden with food some time later. It seemed that he had fallen asleep somewhere in between the discussion of the summer raids and the chanting of Ivar’s (rather awful) court skald.

“Come,” said Thorgil, as she pulled Jack up from his seat. “Before Treefoot eats all the lamb!”

Ivar’s job as karl, or king, was to provide for his people. Now, after the plight of Queen Frith, he had not been very good at fulfilling his job. However, his court attendants and advisors took care of things for the most part. So when Jack was led up to the display of food he was not disappointed.

The long trestle table groaned with the weight of all the food resting upon it. It was more magnificent than what Jack’s chief put out for celebrations, but still worldly and normal, unlike the fare put out by Partholis’ court. Then, Jack decided to stop his thinking of past Midsummers, and focus on the one right in front of him.

There was meat of all kinds, and no corners were cut. There was lamb, and duck, and ox. There was chicken, and pig, and even capercaillie. There was also a great deal of fish. The breasts and flesh and legs and tongues and brains of the animals were all laid out in a delightful display, surrounded by greens and fresh summer berries. Further down the table was a selection of other fruits and vegetables: things Jack recognized, like turnips and carrots and onions. He even saw some of the salty black things called olives he had once sampled in Fonn’s greenhouse in Jotunheim. Next to all this, there was bread. Thick, dense, and dark loaves, as well as soft, white ones. There was butter and jam and clotted cream to spread on all of it. Next to all this was an assortment of sweetmeats: tarts made from sweet strawberries, seedcakes and bannocks and honeyed rolls. It was a bit too early in the year for apples, but there were still apple tarts, made from boffins that had been soaked in water. There was even flummery, the best kind, with nutmeg and cream.

Jack grabbed a trencher from the front of the table, and slowly made his way down, putting whatever caught his eye on the hard piece of bread. He figured he would be returning to the table more than once.

And then, because it was a Northman celebration, there was a good deal of things to drink, most of it intoxicating. However, most of it was watered down, for some reason. Thorgil filled two earthenware cups with sweet mead, which they took back to their places on the benches. Besides the mead, a large drinking horn frothing with ale was constantly travelling along the hall, being passed from person to person.

Shortly after Jack finished his meal, he noted that many of the men and women who had been feasting were filing out of the hall.

“Where ever are they going?” Jack asked Thorgil.

“Did I not say?” the shield maiden said, standing up, preparing to leave herself. “Trolls!”

“What do frost giants have to do with Midsummer’s Eve?”

“Why, battle, of course!”

“Were you not joking about that?!” cried Jack.

“No! How did you suppose we were going to get to Niðavellir?”

“Er… ponies?”

“No! Trolls!”

“When was that decided?”

“I sent a raven to Mother, as soon as we got here. Some of her louts are going to fetch us tonight.”

“When, exactly?”

“I’m assuming after they have fought for a bit… and after I’ve gone for a while, as well!”

“What am I to do?”

“You will not fight?” Jack shook his head. “Then you can watch! Write some poetry about your darling dear.”

“And who is that?”

“Me, of course! The tale of Thorgil Silver-hand needs a new verse!”

Jack hated watching people fight. Sparring was all in good fun, and helped you defend yourself. But actual fighting? Battles? Blood and carnage and death… these were not things a servant of the life force condoned. Most jotuns were good, kind, and honest creatures. Some of them acted even better than the Men Jack was acquainted with. He did not wish to see them slaughtered, no more than he wished to see the Northmen cleaved in two. (As was wont to happen, when struck with a troll’s swing.)

Even so, Jack followed Thorgil out of the hall. He figured out what was under the cover of the wagon they had brought to Ivar’s palace: rough clothes, armor, and the weapons everyone had to leave outside the hall. Jack changed into a homespun tunic and trousers, taking off all his finery and placing it in his pack, (which was also stowed on the wagon). He wore a leather breastplate and greaves, and St. Columba’s cloak over the whole ensemble. He also carried the saint’s staff, and a small dagger was strapped to his hip. The weapons were not really needed, as Schlaup would be sitting next to him on the battlefield, ensuring that no troll would come and harm him. But it was nice to know that he had a bit of protection.

Thorgil was dressed much more protectively, as she would actually be fighting. She wore a steel hauberk over the rough, weather-stained clothing she had traded for her elvish finery. Over the woven rings was a breastplate, etched with protective runes. She had bracers around her wrists, and thick leather gloves protecting her hands. Her mail-coat covered her thighs, but over her calves and shins were metal greaves. Skakki weaved her hair tightly into a braid that trailed halfway down her back. Slung over her back and ‘round her front were two wooden shields, gruesome faces painted onto it in blue woad and lime.

From his bluff overlooking the battlefield, Jack watched the Northmen sing and sway as they lit and built up their bonfire. They beat on drums and crowed loudly. Then, quite suddenly all was quiet. Regular men— the group including Skakki— retreated to the back of the field as the berserkers passed around a skin of bog myrtle-brew. Everyone, that is, except Thorgil. Thorgil could no longer fall into a true rage like the berserker she was born as, but she still fought viciously and without much thought for strategy. Even though she was out there fighting, the jotuns were not likely to hurt her. Trolls were long-lived, and most of the warriors would remember the shield maiden as the little berserker they had played Dodge-the-Spear with. They would not harm her too terribly.

A few moments after silence fell, from the other end of the field, there came a terrible roar. Somehow, without Jack noticing, Glamdis’ forces had amassed at the summit of a hill a league or two to the north.

When Jack gasped at the sight of the army, Schlaup smiled his jumbled-up smile, and patted Jack on the shoulder. It practically drove him into the ground. He tried not to wince, if only to keep the half-troll appeased. “Trolls. Very stealthy!” Schlaup said.

Jack nodded. The army on the hill was not stealthy, not in the slightest. The jotuns, not one of them under seven feet tall, gave one more ear-shattering war cry before rushing onto the battlefield. The Northmen bellowed back at the trolls, and bolted towards the bristly, orange creatures.

A trained and militaristic group of Northmen warriors would have done something sensible during a troll-charge. They would have swung the shields off their backs in one smooth movement, erecting them so that the jotuns could not strike a proper blow. They would shove spears through the chinks of the shield wall, with the hope that a few trolls would impale themselves on them. With that, they would really begin the fighting, slashing at the ankles and wrists and necks of the troll hoard.

Berserkers were trained warriors, but when consumed by their rage, they had no mind for tactics or techniques. Mindless slashing and blood and carnage was their only technique. Hit, strike, and stab until they died, or you did the same first. Because of this, it was hard for Jack to keep an eye on Thorgil.

He had took her words to thought: her saga could use a few new verses. He had sang her story when he was a lad of thirteen summers, and Thorgil not much older than him. Since the first verses he had come up with, the both of them had experienced many new things, and bested several new enemies. There were new tales to tell, more stories of her bravery and her magic. So he kept his eyes on Thorgil’s figure as she slashed and yelled and revelled in the glory of battle, hoping for poetry fodder.

She was a hard thing to keep his sights on, however. She moved in between trunk-like legs and swinging arms, stabbing and crying out in rage whenever a weapon came close to hitting her person. Interspersed with this, she jumped and cried out in joy when she saw a lout she recognized. Deep growls of troll laughter rolled off the battlefield, which was quite disconcerting to hear. In her earth-colored and homespun clothing, she blended in as she weaved in and out of the crush of bodies. The only thing that gave her away was the glittering of her sword hilt and the shine of her hauberk in the light of the large bonfire still burning in the middle of the field.

The fight went on until the sun began to rise in the East. As the first red fingers of dawn reached across the sky, one jotun let out a guttural cry, which others took up. In one movement, the jotuns rushed across the field, travelling North and West as the lights of the bonfire burned low. One of the trolls grabbed a figure from where she was still attempting to stab them, carrying the warrior off as well.

“I will take you to them,” Schlaup said after a bit, pointing to where Jotunheim lay, in the same direction the trolls were running. He grabbed Jack and placed him on his broad shoulders. Jack wrapped his arms around the half-trolls thick neck as he took off running, his long strides carrying him to the troll camp in a few short minutes.

Schlaup did not carry him into the camp, where the trolls would be able to see that he was not able to speak with his mind. Instead he put Jack down just outside of the sight of the sentries.

“Is this farewell, Schlaup?” Jack asked.

The half-troll nodded. “You will go to Jotunheim with just my sister. Not me, and not Skakki. No Ygdith.”

“And what a shame that will be,” Jack said quietly. Louder, he said, “Then I will see you another day, Schlaup! May the life-force hold you in the hollow of its hand.”

Schlaup nodded. He looked around for a moment, then seemed to make a decision. He picked up Jack, and squeezed him very, very tightly.

“Best luck, little skald. Come back soon!”

Jack said that he would, but Schlaup bounded away so quickly that he was not sure if the half-troll heard him.

Before striding into the camp, he put thoughts of peace in his mind. He did not wish for any trolls to attack him. Along with this, Jack called, “I mean no harm!” as he came within earshot of the first sentries.

_We know that, apprentice of Dragon Tongue_ , uncoiled the whisper in his mind. _Come, we have some who expect you._

No troll touched him, but rather they gently herded him towards the biggest tent, in the center of the field. It was made of thin, white fabric that flapped gently in the breeze that seemed omnipresent in this part of the Northland, being so close to the sea. He fussed idly with the neck of his tunic, and brushed a few flecks of wet grass off his leather breastplate.

_Come in, little skald. Do stop fussing with your tunic!_

Jack put on a nervous smile and ducked inside the tent. The first thing he noticed was that the tent was considerably cooler than the temperature outside— maybe because of the fabric it was made out of.

The next thing he noticed was a seven foot tall troll-maiden, baring her teeth at him in a smile.

“Jack,” Fonn said in her low, gravelly voice. She had just stood up from her seat on a pile of furs, which her sister was still sitting on. Forath was smiling (if that is what you could call it) just as much as her sister, though she only said her greetings mentally. Thorgil was sprawled against the broad expanse of Forath’s chest, letting the troll-maiden brush through her golden hair with her fingers and a comb made of a whale’s bone, getting the flecks of blood out of the warrior’s hair. There was still blood… everywhere else, but Forath was doing her best. “It is good to see you again. And it will be delightful to have you as company as we travel back to my mother’s halls.”

The young skald ducked his head and smiled, saying that he was just as pleased to have the daughters of Glamdis as company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta for this, so please forgive me for any typos. I'm essentially done with classes for the rest of the year, so I should be able to churn these out more quickly now. As always, a kudos and a comment are always greatly appreciated! The next thing you see from me will mostly be a Bagginshield thing, so keep your eyes peeled. See you soon!


	6. Jotunheim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hall of the Mountain Queen welcomes Jack and Thorgil with open arms.

Jack and Thorgil peered into the icy blackness of the cave in front of them. They both shivered, from chill as well as from foreboding. Jack tried to ignore the cold of the ground that was seeping into his boots and stealing the warmth out of his toes. The cold did not bother Fonn and Forath, who both walked into the yawning dark without a second thought. If there had been second thoughts, of course, Jack would have heard them. He trudged on miserably, not daring to complain of the dark or of his seemingly guaranteed frostbite. He did not wanting to risk Thorgil’s chiding. Every bit of the dreadful trek through the cave reminded Jack unpleasantly of the wretched tunnels that twisted through the Nine Realms he had been forced to travel through. Damp, dark, and disturbingly quiet. In the cave, the whispering thoughts of the trolls didn’t even seem to reach him through his black mood. It was like being near Hel.

A low rumble reached his ears as soon as the thought crossed his mind. It was Forath laughing.

_ Jack, we may enjoy the cold more than the creatures of Life you are familiar with _ , came Forath's voice in his mind.

"But we are nothing like Hel, and our realm holds no likeness to hers.” The troll maiden exhaled slowly, and then smiled. “Come, we will show you how different we are," said Fonn.

Thorgil took the words to heart and was the first to continue through the tunnels. She was never one to back down from a challenge, especially if she somehow got to shame Jack by winning.

“Freya’s teats, it is cold!” she cried cheerily, happy with her blaspheme.

Jack did not go so easily in the tunnels. Much as he tried to put it out of his mind, the tunnels that criss-crossed beneath the ground of his homeland plagued him. The icy black beneath King Yffi’s palace, now King Brutus’, was also close to mind. The boy absolutely detested being underground. It was a wonder the boy did not put forth more protest about the destination of his quest! He had just never had good experiences with being below the earth. He liked his feet on solid ground, beneath the sun. Forath, in her quiet way, reassured Jack by taking his hand in her much larger one.

Her hand was much hairier and heftier than Jack expected from a maiden, but the gesture was still appreciated. He tightened his hold around St. Columba’s staff and let Forath guide him.

“Thorgil, stop there.”

They had been walking in the dark for a long time. Or perhaps it had just felt that way. Jack was still feeling slightly ill from the weight of rock above him, and that may have lengthened the minutes for him. Fonn held out her hand to stop Forath and Jack. Thorgil stopped her long strides, and though Jack could not see her in the blackness of the tunnel, he knew she was shifting her feet in impatience. Jack was the one who had originally dedicated himself to being a wandering bard, but Thorgil had mastered the art of being restless long before he had. She was tapping her fingers against the hilt of her sword. Jack just barely heard the huff of exasperated breath she let out through the dark. He imagined the white puff of air coming from her pink lips, slightly upturned despite her whining tone. He was rather good at imagining her face.

“What are we doing?” she asked. “Why do we wait so long in these black and icy tunnels when Mother is so close?”

_ Patience, shield maiden _ , Forath thought. As soon as her words came across Jack’s mind, he could suddenly see. Light did not flood in, it appeared from every side and flickered. It was not torch light, but something far more awe inspiring. Something  _ magical _ . Fonn’s arms were outspread, and her dainty fangs glittered in the bluish light that was pulsing behind the icy walls of the tunnels. The two humans laughed in delight, and Jack cried,

“How did this come to be?”

“You are not the only race blessed with magic. And fire is not the only bright thing in the Nine Worlds.” said the troll-maiden. “Now, we will go and see Mother.”

The four of them climbed steadily upwards through the tunnels, and soon Jack and Thorgil were putting forth so much effort to move upwards that they hardly noticed the cold anymore. The tunnels were still smooth, but they were not level any longer. One could tell that they were inside a mountain. At one point, Jack's leather boots lost purchase with the cool floor of the cave, and he flung out a hand, catching himself on the grooves carved into the icy walls. He had not noticed the carvings before, and stopped walking. The trolls stopped as soon as he did, sensing his movement. Thorgil kept going forward several paces before turning her head to glare at Jack. Then she saw what his eyes were turned upon, and she did the same.

"What are these?" Jack asked, tracing his fingers along the glowing carvings. Thorgil did the same, her hand lit up like silver once more in the cold light. Jack forced himself to stay looking at the wall, instead of at the way the shield maiden’s grey eyes shined and her skin glowed.

"We are passing into the tunnels that Mother's harem lives in," explained Fonn. "The louts carve the ice with our tales. This is where they begin."

_ They tell the story of our race. From our birth, to the sinking of Utgard, and into the now,  _ Forath's voice sighed in their minds.  _ Have you heard the full tale? _

"We heard your song about Utgard when we first visited your palace,” said Thorgil. “Is that it?”

_ Nay, shield maiden. Our tale goes back much further. _

"The world was created when the All-Father and his kin destroyed the giant Ymir," began Fonn. She gestured at the wall to their right with one of her great arms. "Ymir was created by the cold and scorching winds from Niflheimr and Múspellheimr. The two great forces coming together created the fearsome giant. The heat and cold and the conflict between the two created a being as large as the largest mountain, with an anger as deep as the sea. That is why he had to be slain. But before Odin smote him, he slept in the void of Ginnungagap for an age.

"While he slept, the first jötnar grew from his armpits— it is not strange, Jack, it truly happened— and that is how our kind were created. We were almost destroyed by Ymir's blood when he was slain, in the great flood of it. It was only due to Bergelmir, a strong lout, that we survived and were brought from the darkness of Niflheimr. He and his wife were the ones who walked across the sea. Yea, they tread upon the water to Utgard. They would begin the rebirth of our people."

_ And that is all written _ , Forath said, stroking the deep gouges in the ice. Jack and Thorgil looked upon the carvings in the pulsing blue light. History unfolded before their eyes, detailed as any saga, richer than anything recorded in a tome. The humans saw the jötnar springing fully grown out of Ymir's armpits. They saw the exploring of Niflheimr, the searching and piercing eyes of frost giants peering through skillfully carved mists. Several jotun kings and queens were carved, each of the line of Bergelmir. Their names were carved underneath in runes, showing their power and wisdom.

Thorgil traced the softer lines of Bergelmir's wife, who was carved fleeing across the newly-formed ocean of Ymir's blood. The carving was so detailed that she could catch the glint of her fangs: dainty, businesslike. 

_ Vafdís was her name _ , Forath said when she saw Thorgils curious gaze.  _ Bergelmir saw that the jötnar kings of the past did not lead our people well. They did not foresee the slaying of Ymir the giant, and how it would slay us as well. They had no foresight, and were concerned only with a full belly and a joyous hall. There is more to ruling than that. Seeing the flaws in the men of our race, he gave the right to rule to his wife. Vafdís was the first queen of our people, but she was not the last. _

"Further down are the tales you will recognize, Thorgil Silverhand. You will find the louts have carved the stories of Skaði and Jàrnsaxa and Gerðr, and many more."

"Do you not honor the male jötnar?" asked Thorgil.

"We do,” Fonn conceded. “They are just not as important."

"The tales I have heard put more stock in your men," Jack said. "Were these lies?"

_ Of course. It is the job of humans to lie, and the job of jötnar to keep the truth. Our womenfolk are larger and more powerful, and the tales told by your skalds twist the truth and glorify the louts. Unforgivable.. _

"I knew I liked trolls for a reason," said Thorgil with a satisfied smile.

“I meant to ask earlier,” Jack said, interrupting that line of conversation. He did not like the sound of it. “Why do we take these tunnels instead of walking across the ice bow?”

“The one you melted?” asked Fonn, raising her bristly eyebrows. Her gravelly voice was tinged with something like irony. 

“Er… Yes, that one.”

_ The ice bow guards us from invading humans _ , explained Forath.  _ But the tunnels are an easier and safer entrance used by the jotnär. You are friends of our people, for now, and so you take our paths.  _

The history continued all through the incline. Beautiful pictures told a story, and little carvings aside in the ice let one know a little something about the louts who carved them. Regardless of which queen they belonged to, they obviously had a penchant for swear words and lewd anatomy. This was nearly as interesting as the tale being etched out. Jack was so distracted by the stories on the walls that he almost did not realize when they reached the residential part of the tunnels. 

The only real notification that they had reached the living space was the stench of the louts, and the buzz of their voices in his mind as they approached.  _ Humans _ , they said. They smiled with crooked teeth, and self-consciously brushed their meaty hands through their bristly hair when they saw the shield-maiden in their midst.  _ And Thorgil Silverhand is one of them! _

The louts all patted Thorgil on her back and sniffed the braid that Forath wove into her hair that morning. Thorgil looked quite calm, surrounded by a over a dozen hulking trolls. This was to be expected, since they probably reminded her strongly of her brother. Though she was wiry and slight in comparison to the louts around her, it was still obvious that each one in the group was a warrior. The shield maiden smiled every time she recognized a lout she played Dodge-the-Spear with so many years ago. The trolls exclaimed over her new battle scars and the sword strapped to her hip.

_ What is its name?  _ asked one, shyly. 

"It is not named yet," said Thorgil. “For I have not seen much battle while learning the ways of the wise. Those in the kindly West have no time for the clashing of swords, when they are so taken up with chanting to squirrels and picking leaves off trees. This iron has not yet earned a title. But it will surely cleave some of your heads in the days to come! And then I will give it a suitable name for doing the world such a kind task.”

The louts laughed at the threat and continued chatting with her. Jack stood aside. He did not mind standing alone, for he did not fit in well with the louts. While they were loud and coarse and rude, he was small and mild-mannered. Jack’s voice was suited to songs of bees and trees and babbling brooks, while theirs favored odes to strong ale, or that distinct and pleasing noise of a skull detaching from the spine. These brutes, nice as they surely were, would not appreciate Jack’s interests or his skills. No matter how well he sang, he would never be able to cleave in a skull or wear a necklace of war trophies around his neck. Though his staff meant he was deserving of respect, it did not grant him camaraderie. They let him be.

In all the talk of her weapons, Jack wondered why Thorgil did not mention her numerous other weapons. They had been together for some time during this final exam, and he had seen her in various states of undress several times. He hadn’t gotten a look at anything he shouldn’t have, but he certainly got an eyeful of various sharpened metals, strapped to convenient as well as distinctly uncomfortable places. But then perhaps it was in poor taste to draw a silver knife in the house of a friend. Daggers and knives were less honorable than swords, and less expensive. And anyway, he did not wish to ask. The louts couldn’t be bothered with him, even if he had wanted them to.

"It is because you are a fire-wizard," Fonn told him, hearing his thoughts. She and her sister had yet to depart. "And also, Thorgil is quite beautiful. You, dear Jack, are not."

"Trolls are nothing if not honest," said Jack stiffly, trying not to show that he was hurt. It was only to make himself feel better, of course. All the trolls could read him like an open book. Why should he care what trolls thought of his appearance?

Fonn quickly amended her statement, not wanting to bruise Jack’s pride. "Do not be offended. You have not seen enough battle to be seen as winsome, little skald. You are clever, but you are not a warrior. Thorgil has many a fight beneath her belt. Her scars and epithet make her all the more attractive to my people's eyes."

"She is beautiful," Jack said. "But I never thought she would be seen as such by trolls."

"Thorgil is tall, strong, and fierce. But you need not be jealous. Her heart lies with someone else."

“Does it?”

“Someone in this room,” Fonn added. She laughed, low and guttural, at the flush of Jack’s ears.

"Oh," said the boy.

“I can read minds, you know. She isn’t even guarding those thoughts. Perhaps she wants someone to notice.”

“You think so?” asked Jack, his voice slightly higher than usual. He felt a little warm, and more than a little sweaty suddenly. 

Fonn laughed, rather than replying. The group of louts gathered around Thorgil turned to see what was so amusing. Or perhaps just to look at Fonn. As far as Jack knew, she was considered a very beautiful troll-maiden. Her laugh was probably winsome as well. One of the louts stood up tall and straight, and Jack saw that it was Bolthorn, Fonn and Forath's father. The troll had replaced the y-shaped stick that held up his brow ridge: it was now gilted. 

"Come with me," he said in an almost impossibly low rumble. He did not meet anyone’s eyes, but Jack and Thorgil did not need to ask who he meant to say it to. "I will prepare you to see Mother."

The sea of louts parted before Jack’s staff. The two humans followed the heavy, shambling step of Bolthorn further through the tunnels. "It is good to see you two again," he said. It was hard to discern the words from the growl coming from Bolthorn’s throat, but Jack somehow managed it. "Though the years pass slowly here, you both are almost fully grown."

“And you haven’t changed at all, Bolthorn,” said Thorgil brightly. The lout smiled at her, showing off his yellow and mossy teeth. It was quite a sight.

"How have the years been in this realm?" asked Jack. His question wiped the soft smile off the troll’s face almost immediately.

"The warmth steadily consumes the land," said the jotun, sadly. The melancholy in his voice made it even harder to understand. "I fear we will have to uproot our people once more within the next two centuries. Disregarding that, we have been prosperous. No one is sick, and two cubs have been born since your last visit."

"I should like to see a troll child," said Thorgil.

"They are precious, indeed," said Bolthorn. Trolls could not lie, but Jack was confident that troll children were precious only in the eyes of other trolls. And perhaps Thorgil.

They walked further through the icy halls. His breath misting in front of his face, eight feet off the ground, Bolthorn told an attentive Thorgil all about troll children. To Jack, it seemed they were much like human babies. However, they were much hairier and hungrier. And when they were hungry, they were not averse to chomping off one or two unsuspecting fingers. And the nappies were a nightmare to deal with. After a few minutes, Bolthorn led them into his rooms, which took up a large cave. Each compartment was sectioned off with a sheet of ice, creating a common space, a bedroom, and what must have been a privy.

_ Lay your weapons down in the doorway, _ the troll thought as they stepped through the doorway. He was too busy for vocalizing. His massive furred shoulders strained as he pulled a heavy oak chest into the center of the cave, onto a carpet. Jack leaned St. Columba's staff against the wall next to the door, and Thorgil did the same with her sword. She detached her axe from its holster on her back, and laid it on the floor. She also stook away the knives strapped to her thighs, the one blade attached to her hip, and the three daggers stored in her boots. It took a pointed look from the lout for her to take off her short bow. Then, a threatening grunt to remove her quiver.

"And the last dagger," said Bolthorn. Thorgil grinned and pulled her last blade out of its hiding place in her leg wrappings.

"From his weapons on the open road, no man should step one pace away," she said, quoting a Northman proverb.

Bolthorn ducked his great head, agreeing. Jack was terrified for the stick sitting atop his nose, as it seemed like it might fall out if it was jostled too much. And who knew what would happen to the lout’s brow ridge then?

"That is true,” he said, “but you are no longer on the open road. You have no need to fear us while you are under Glamdis' hospitality.” He adjusted the y-shaped stick that was holding up his brow ridge, and Jack breathed a sigh of relief. The troll then opened the oak chest. Thorgil leaned forward to get the first look at the contents of it. It was full of clothing. 

"You should not have an audience with Mother clothed like peasants," Bolthorn said. He nodded at the packs on their back as the two humans thought of the formal wear they had brought with them. That which had been gifted by Partholis. "Neither should you approach her dressed like elves. These shall service you in our realm, and wherever you may go after this."

He pulled out the clothes and laid them on the thick carpet. It took him several minutes to do so, as there was a good deal of clothing inside the chest.

"What will we need so many outfits for?" asked Thorgil.

"We have several celebrations planned during your stay," said Bolthorn. "Many feasts, as well as a dance. And much of the clothing in this chest is meant to be worn during your journey to Niðavellir. You will be moving through a great deal of frozen land to get there."

Jack almost asked how the troll knew they were travelling to the realm of the dwarves. But then he reminded himself that frost giants could read minds. The quest was always floating around in his head, demanding acknowledgement and planning.

_ That is not the only reason why I know _ , thought Bolthorn.

He spoke aloud then, saying: "Someone travels ahead of you, spreading your destination, though not your purpose. Sindri knows of your approach."

"Who!" cried Jack and Thorgil. "This was meant to be a secret quest!"

"It is still secret, though not fully. You will still be able to steal your ring."

"Do not say it aloud!" Thorgil hissed. "Who knows who may be listening?"

"No jotun will betray you," said Bolthorn. He smiled again with his jumbled up teeth, shaking out a fur cloak. "We are too honest for that. The dwarves' knowledge of your approach has some benefit, besides. They know not yet of your planned deceit. They just know their court is receiving two visitors. They will be sending you a guide."

"We do not need a guide," Jack groused. He knew the way to the realm of dwarves, as best as any human did. The way may be shorter with a dwarven guide, but he did not want that kindness when he was going to later thieve from those benefactors. 

"It will not hurt," Thorgil pointed out. She did not even have deceit in mind. Northmen believed in the power of hospitality, and she would never go behind someone’s back to steal something. The shield maiden would fight for it. "Now, Bolthorn, is that a silk tunic?"

It was, and it was not the silvery-grey fabric of spider silk. It was bright blue, the sort of silk that came out of the East. It smelled faintly of the spice that had been traded along with it. There were many pieces of clothing of that ilk, made of rich cloth and lined with beautiful furs. Nothing else was to be expected, within the hall of the Mountain Queen. Most things were heavily embroidered, and blue and green and purple gems were sewn into cuffs and necklines. The clothing had weight, ceremonially and literally. 

After a long while of picking through all the pieces of clothing, both Jack and Thorgil decided on what they would wear when they reunited with Mother. It was all properly trollish. Thorgil wore a bright blue tunic over a grey knitted shirt. Over it all she had on a long jerkin in a paler blue. On the jerkin's back was a design of a hand, picked out in silver thread.

"It was made just for me!" cried Thorgil, when tugging it on.

A gold belt was knotted over both of them, and though Thorgil was loath to cover up the design on her back, she wore a heavy coat of marten fur. She also had on kidskin gloves, their edges embroidered in green thread. Her leggings were a deep purple, and she wore red silk leg wrappings over thick woolen socks. She had on boots of caribou skin, the hair turned out so that they could grip the icy floors of Glamdis' halls. On her head was a pointed cap of red fabric.

Jack's raiment was in similar cool shades. He wore a deep purple tunic over a shirt of pale blue. He had on loose-fitting blue trousers in the style of the Rus, tucked into the same sort of boots Thorgil was wearing. Instead of a long fur coat, he wore St. Columba's cloak, held together with a golden clasp in the shape of a twisting beast. Woolen mittens covered his hands, their palms reinforced with some sort of pliable leather. He wore nothing on his curly head, save a woven crown of yew leaves that Bolthorn handed to him, saying that they came from Forath's greenhouse.

"You are both ready," said Bolthorn. "Do not return to your blades or your staff. Such things should not go into the halls of friends. You shall leave your weapons in here. Glamdis will not permit such things in her throne room anymore. She says she is through with the tricks of fire-wizards."

Jack had the grace to duck his head and blush. Thorgil took his gloved hand, and they followed Bolthorn through the twisting tunnels. The passages steadily lightened as they approached the sun-lit throne room of the palace. When they entered, there was only one person in the room. Granted, it was a rather large individual, and she took up more space than any human could have— save Olaf Onebrow, of course. Glamdis stood at the foot of her throne, her furred arms spread in welcome. 

“Welcome back to Jotunheim, my children,” she said. “We have been anticipating your arrival for many a night.”

Jack was always more stringent with his emotions, but he cried, “Mother!” along with Thorgil. It had been a long time since they met, and the long years of absence made the heart fonder. The two humans ran into the troll-queen’s awaiting arms. They only slipped on the polished silver floor once.

“Try not to knock my crown off,” Glamdis laughed, once the two humans barrelled into her arms. “It was made by the dwarves, you know.”

“Dwarves.” Thorgil gave Mother a quizzical look. “What do you know about dwarves?”

“It is admirable that you wish to keep your quest a secret.” Glamdis let go of the two of them, and she looked down on them sternly, her bushy orange brows drawn down over her eyes. “But you cannot hide the truth from the jötnar. However, my people will not betray you. Who would we tell? But you should know that someone travels ahead of you. He gave us first word of your journey, and your purpose for coming.”

“Who is this being? Is that why your daughters collected us after the battle?”

“Well, you were on the way,” Glamdis said matter-of-factly.

“Who was it?” Jack asked. “Who travels ahead?”

“He goes by many names,” said the Queen. “I swore not to reveal him, and I will stay true to my word.”

“The only people who know about the assignment are at the School,” Thorgil thought out loud. “Doubtless we know them, and we will give them a good thumping if our paths cross once we arrive in Niðavellir.”

Jack had a good thought of who it might be. He did not say it aloud, however. The look Glamdis gave him made him think that he was right. Anyone who said frost giants could not feel emotion were clearly wrong. The sly, gleeful look in Glamdis’ walnut-brown eyes would discourage anyone from that thought.

“That is enough speaking,” Glamdis rumbled. “Both of you, go take a bath, and prepare for tonight’s celebration.”

“Yes, Mother,” the two questers said. They bowed low, and exited the throne room.

Bolthorn met them outside, and he led them through the ice palace.

“My people do not bathe often,” said the lout.  _ Like most sensible folk _ , Jack thought. “Or at least, not us louts. Our stench is considered attractive, you see. Thorgil, you can use the princess’ bathing chamber. I will lead you there. Jack, you can come back with me to the harem tunnels.”

The baths were part of the system of the caves the louts lived in. Nothing but the best for Glamdis’ harem. In a large cave off a side tunnel, there was a wide stone-lined pool, the water stirring slightly but empty of louts. Jack shuddered to think of what it would look like when the harem was taking advantage of the bath. Yards of flaking flesh and bristly orange hair would in no way be improved by having it all bared. Roughhousing, naked trolls were not something the boy would ever wish to see.

There were furs and blankets lining the side of the bath. Jack had never been to a communal bath, but he had a general idea of what you did.

He hesitated in taking his clothes off, but he figured there was no point in being modest in front of a frost giant. If they saw the innermost recesses of your mind, what was the issue of them seeing your body? He began to strip off the splendid clothing Glamdis had given him, folding it carefully and placing it in Bolthorn’s arms. The troll watched Jack as he took off his clothes. Jack would have been embarrassed by the close attention, but his body was obviously very different from the troll’s. He only hunched in on himself a little as Bolthorn’s brown eyes studied the scars on his back.

“What are those white marks?” asked the lout. “They are not wounds from a blade.”

“Elf-shot,” Jack told him. “The light elves have a bit of a grudge against me. Whenever I encounter one— which is relatively often, on the Islands of the Blessed, since the barriers between worlds are thin— they are very eager to express their displeasure.”

“The light elves are vengeful. What did you to do them?”

Jack told Bolthorn how he, Thorgil, and Pega ended Partholis’ reign in the Land of Silver Apples as he took off the last remnants of his clothes. It was easier to strip when he had something to distract him. Though Bolthorn has surely heard the tale before, through the saga of Thorgil Silverhand, he listened attentively as Jack described Midsummer in Alfheim. Bolthorn did not speak, but Jack felt his displeasure as he described the heinous entertainment and purpose of the huge bonfire Partholis had built. Jack himself shuddered as he described what the bonfire eventually revealed itself as: a yawning pit into hell, crawling with imps and demons and worse. 

“And that is how Thorgil got her title,” said the lout approvingly once Jack was done with his tale. “I have heard it told, but it is something else entirely to hear it from one who was there. You must tell the whole saga at the feast tonight.”

“If you think so,” said Jack, a tad shyly. “Shall I get in the water now?”

“Yes. I will wait here until you finish.”

Jack bit his lip. “Could you turn around?”

Bolthorn’s browridge raised interestingly over its stick, but the troll did as he was requested. Jack did not enjoy bathing, but he would do what Glamdis told him. He stepped into the water.

And shouted, because the water was freezing. And much deeper than Jack would have thought! He was completely submerged in the pool unless he tread water. Of course, it would only come up to a jotun’s waist.

_ I should have told you it was cold for a human. Didn’t even think to. _

Jack scowled and tried to wash as quickly as he could. There was no soap, but he could still scrub himself and get off several week’s worth of dirt. 

He got behind his ears and between his toes. He washed his hair and shuddered as cold water ran down his back. He wondered how the Northmen could do this as often as once a week.

Once he was done washing, he wondered vaguely how he would get out of the pool. The way was to hoist his leg onto the lip of stone that bordered the bath, but he was cold and wet, and the stone was slick. He didn’t want to lose a tooth, or continue the rest of his journey with a broken arm. Before he could think of the best technique to get him out of the water, however, Bolthorn extended a fur-clad arm for Jack’s aid. The boy gratefully hooked his arms around it, and the lout lifted him out of the bath with astonishing strength. 

Jack was only standing naked, shivering, for a brief time. Bolthorn quickly fetched a thick fur robe from the ones stacked and folded along the walls and wrapped it around the boy. 

_ Wouldn’t want you to catch your death of cold. We have many celebrations planned. _

The young sklad quickly shuffled into thick socks and his boots, and followed Bolthorn back to his chambers. It was an odd sensation to be unclothed underneath the fur, but Jack almost couldn’t be bothered, since he was warm as he followed the lout through the harem.

“We have more clothing prepared for you,” Bolthorn rumbled. “I will choose something for you while you dry off.”

“Will I be sleeping in the harem, Bolthorn?” asked Jack as he shook his hair out. 

_ Certainly not! _ thought Bolthorn. “No, little skald,” he continued in speech. “Only those the Mountain Queen has courted may sleep within these walls. We will have some louts move your things during the feast tonight.”

“Where will Thorgil be staying?”

“With my daughters. You will still see plenty of her, though.”

A while later, Jack found himself at the end of a line of sixteen louts. They walked onto the frozen lake than functioned as Glamdis’ feasting hall as a group, and Jack felt a little foolish as they all filed in. The louts all preened and displayed themselves in a way they surely thought was fetching. He supposed it was true that beauty was in the eye of the beholder, as the lady trolls’ approval floated through his mind. Jack personally saw nothing appealing about bristly orange hair, rotten teeth, and flaky skin, whether it was accentuated by a loincloth or covered up by heavy furs and dense wool.

Once the Mountain Queen sat down, the feasting could begin. For their celebrations, it seemed like the only rule was that you had to keep one foot on the ground. There was no assigned seating, no restriction on conversation, and practically no limit on the food or drink. Once Jack loaded a trencher, he made his slow way across the lake, to where Thorgil had already set herself up nicely. Glamdis had provided a smaller table and two chairs for the humans. Thorgil was chatting amicably to a young lout in a loincloth, her boots propped up on the chair that was meant for Jack. He hadn’t seen her so comfortable in months, since they left the Islands of the Blessed.

Jack nodded politely at the lout, keeping his eyes firmly off the loincloth. He kicked Thorgil’s feet off his chair, and sat down to enjoy his food. 

Thorgil had loved Jotunheim when they had travelled there as children, and it was just the same now that they were adults. The Northmen and the jotuns were natural enemies, but she got along swimmingly with the youths. They enjoyed all the same things, and laughed at the same crude subjects. They were evenly matched in their games and competitions, except for the drinking contests. Though they were destined one day to end each other during Ragnarok, they were as friendly as anything before then.

Jack was a little jealous. He and Thorgil had been through many things together, and had overcome many evils. But they were not a perfect match by any means. Their personalities and ideals clashed. For every minute they were friendly, there was practically an hour of them being at each other’s throats. He held her closer to his heart than any other person in the world, but sometimes it seemed like it shouldn’t be that way. Sometimes it was easy to remember the terms they had started on, more than any of their shared experiences. 

The lout heard what Jack was thinking, and leered at him unpleasantly.

But maybe Thorgil heard as well. She hooked her arm around Jack’s shoulders and pulled him and his chair closer. Though it made it inconvenient to eat his salmon, the skald leant into the touch and listened to Thorgil discuss the best way to crush an elk skull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly have no excuse, lol

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone is actually reading this: thank you! I'd appreciate feedback, and lots of it, as I'm not entirely sure where this story is going. If you have read the series: HaShem is truly good. Please come talk to me about it, I have wanted this for almost a decade.


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